


ITinktober 2019

by artispain



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Death, Gore, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mild Gore, Other, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-22 10:10:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 21,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20872478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artispain/pseuds/artispain
Summary: My shit for ITinktober 2019





	1. Chapter 1

Day 1  
Loser

“Sissies.”  
Laughter slips from her as she extends her leg, her foot coming down and pressing its print into the moist soil for one last step, before her other foot meets empty space. A last extension of her earthbound leg sends her sailing into the open air off the cliff face  
In this moment, Beverly has never felt more alive. The rays of the sunlight hit the surface of the water far below her, making the quarry appear to be worlds largest aquamarine, and reflects off ebbs and waves in slashes of golden fire growing ever larger. The surprised cries and curses of the 5 boys behind her fade away into the thundering sounds of the air rushing past her ears. It whips up her body, cooling her skin and mussing her close cropped curls.   
She closes her eyes and more breathless laughter as she embraces the feeling of being here. With her friends. No judgement. No abuse. Only acceptance. And innocent love.   
Her stomach twists with that familiar feeling one has when they are falling. Flutters dancing around inside her abdomen like tiny birds. How apt. Because she doesn’t feel like she is falling at all. She feels weightless and light. Not plummeting but soaring.   
This feeling persists even as she feels her feet and legs slipping into the water. Even as the force of her impact upon it nips her flesh and makes it tingle. Not even when the sound of the air is replaced by the underwater sounds of splashing and tinny muffled noises and the water closes over her hair.   
With no hesitation, and with a joy filled heart, she swims upwards and her face breaks the surface. Her face beams as she gazes up at her friends, trusting, and with an open heart.  
“C'mon!” she calls out to them.


	2. Day 2 Placebo

Susan’s silhouette is clouded and grey in front of the barred windows. Her face is blank and empty. Her eyes glassy and soulless as she gazes out onto the grounds of juniper Hill asylum. It is misty and grey. No sunshine. There is never sunshine here. Never any hope. She clasps her own bony frame tightly, wrapping her arms around her concave midriff, feeling the sting of hunger yet not wishing to eat. Her mind traveling back……  
She had seen him. The clown that that Henry boy had screamed of. Had scented the circus and the death which surrounded It as It had embraced her, had opened its grizzly fanged mouth over her face……....  
A finger brushes absently at one of the several half moon shaped scars which travel around her face.   
………… those lights. Those swirling little orbs she’d seen dancing and screaming deep down, eternities away, in the abyss of It’s gullet……..  
Susan’s hands snap forward to clutch onto the trim around the window, the fingertips turning purple from blood flow staggering as knuckles turn white. Her breathing hitches. Strangled bubbly quite whimpers emanate from her chest as an object outside floats into her vision. The glassy whites of her eyes frame pale irises clouded with terror.   
There, floating wistfully and playfully, is a brilliant red balloon.   
She hears animal like screeches behind her as Henry Bowers, his little table game forgotten, also spots this balloon. She neither registers this screeching nor reacts as Henry leaps upon another sill and gyrates madly, hooting and snarling and gibbering with unabashed joy. Doesn’t move as he is hauled away.  
Yet jerks with a primitive rodent like squeal as large hands close around her arms.  
“Susan?” the technician questions gently.   
But her mind is gone. Snarling she whirls in a quivering mass of flailing limbs and terror, clutching fistfuls of his hair and yanking his face to hers. As if going in for a passionate kiss.  
The technician screams like a child as Susan sinks her blunt teeth into the stretchy cartilage of his nose. He instinctively shoves her away. He is successful. She is ripped from him by his own force and by his co workers pulling her as well She is ripped from him. And so is his nose. He falls to the ground sobbing as an infant receiving its very first swat to its bottom as it comes into this terrible world.   
Susan snarls and keens like a deranged harpy, the sound garbled around his flesh. She tries, unsuccessfully, to pull herself from the other technicians. Makes another scream as she spits the bloody lump of cartilage into one of their open gasping mouths.   
She struggles madly as she is brought to the floor and held securely. Gargles and smears her bloody chin across the floor as she feels the stinging prick of a hypodermic needle in the thick meat of her right ass cheek. Then cries limply as they carry her to a bed in an isolated room and restrain her wrists and ankles to it. Sobbing into the mattress as she lays spread eagled and face down.   
She knows. It was HERE and she knows this in her soul.   
She doesn know that It is using her as It has used every other adult in this town for centuries. Doesnt realize that her own display has made the staff prematurely dismiss the much more seemingly harmless behaviour of Henry Bowers.  
Then she begins to sob. And scream. She screeches words into the now empty room.  
“FUCK YOU ALL! YOU THINK YOU CAN FIX ME?! YOU CAN’T! I HAVE SEEN HELL! I HAVE SEEN THE DEVIL! AND HE’S HERE! HE’S BACK! NO FUCKING DRUG YOU HAVE IS GOING TO FIX ME! IM NOT INSANE! YOU MUST BELIEVE ME! THIS FUCKING MEDICINE! IT WONT HELP! IT’S JUST A FUCKING PLACEBO!”  
She stretches her head, craning her neck to look out the window above her head. Sees the balloon floating as still as death. Not outside. But inside. Directly above her head.  
Her mind crumbles as she relaxes and her eyes close.   
The placebo takes its effect.


	3. Day 3 Oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This drabble takes place directly after Henry falls into the well in chapter 1

Henry Bowers slowly begins to awaken. His first awareness is the memory of falling headfirst down the well after that little sonofabitch Mike Hanlon had ghosted him. His second awareness was that he was laying on his back nearly completely submerged in cool water. Only his face is exposed to the air as he floats. He can feel his heel scraping bottom occasionally so he knows the water isn’t deep.   
The next awareness has him sitting up rapidly, coughing and sputtering on water that tasted of chilled piss. The voice! It is gone! He swings his head from side to side very fast. Partially to shake off the water, as he gags on it’s taste, and partially to look around himself. But he sees nothing. The darkness around him is only pitch.   
The only sounds to touch his ears are the echoes of dripping water and his gasping breaths. His heart is pounding so hard it makes his head feel rhythmic stabbing pains.   
Where is the voice??? Where has it gone?  
“Nonononono…..” His chants are like prayers as he rolls to his hands and knees to crawl thru the water. It is deep enough to where only his head is above it. He then stands, holding his hands before him blindly, groping in the darkness till his hands touch the slimey side of the sewer pipe.   
He cocks his head to one side, listening like a desperate child. He tries to deepen and calm his own breathing. Tries to HEAR that voice. FEEL that will. That comforting compelling command. The force he’d felt not long ago, that had guided him to act out the actions he’d acted out. But there is nothing. His mind is only this dripping silence, this blackness, and a cold rabbit terror which he does not understand.   
His body jerks rapidly as a high pitched animal scream assaults his ears. Then he runs blindly, directionless, trying to escape this painfully loud noise.   
This place is eternal. Time simply does not seem to exist here. He runs, stumbles, falls and gags on sewer water, stubbing his toes and losing a shoe. His hands desperately seeking some kind of purchase or opening on the round smooth pipe walls. All the while this noise stabs into his ears, nearly splitting his skull.   
Until the noise breaks. Crackles. Goes hoarse. Although Henry does not know this, it has been 2 days since his fall. 2 days since that confident god like voice has gone silent in his head. 2 days that this monster of putrid noise has been chasing him.   
The last shred of his sanity whispers to him before withering to die inside the fabric of his distant human memory. Screaming. The noise monster was his screaming. His own cracking voice racing after him to nurture and pursue his tangible fear.   
He falls to his knees, his eyes going glassy in the darkness. Unseeing. His mouth opens as wide as it can physically go, his lips pulling back grotesquely over his teeth. His body stiffens and his spine curls backwards into nearly a c shape, every muscle tense and quivering. His arms extend at his sides stiffly, his fingers curling into claw like c shapes. His breath grasps from his body in a groaning hiss. His mind can SEE now.   
Not this dark sewer tunnel. Not any of the fear he’d been feeling only moments before.   
Only cold certainty. A grim knowledge that he would survive. Because his work was not finished.   
“I’LL GET OUT OF HERE!!” His scream is a ratlike rasp in the pitch dark of the sewers of Derry Maine as his bloody vocal chords declare his Oath.   
“I’LL GET OUT! AND WHEN I DO I’LL FIND YOU. I’LL FIND ALL OF YOU! AND I’LL KILL YOU!” Wheezing laughter before snarling as he slashes his hands forward to claw algae off the sides of the sewer pipe. Digging his nails deep, 3 of them breaking off at the moist fleshy base of his fingertips. He wheezes giggling laughter at this life giving pain before screaming again.   
“I’LL KILL YOU! I’LL FUCKING KILL ALL OF YOU! I’LL KILL YOU ALL!” This last syllable is drawn out in a croaking groan before his voice gives out completely.   
He then stands fully, his torn hands not once grasping anything for support. His legs simply straightening in an alien and inhuman balancing act, as he straightens his body to stand stiffly. His breath comes out in hissing wheezes of animal laughter.   
Then, without knowing how, and not questioning one iota, he turns to his right and walks for a long while.  
After a time he jerks to a stop. Turns to his left. Drops to his hands and knees. The water is only a few inches deep now. He feels a very small tunnel now in the wall. He shall have to crawl on his elbows and knees. He doesn’t hesitate.   
He emerges from the drainage pipe in the barrens several hours later, blinking his clouded eyes in the sunlight.   
He walks mindlessly home. Doesn’t resist when he’s arrested. Sits placidly like a child in the back of the squad car. He knows now.  
He knows he must wait.   
He knows he must keep his Oath.


	4. Day 4 Carnival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: ANIMAL CRUELTY AND ANIMAL DEATH

Mike Hanlon set his pen down and rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly as his eyes fell on the pamphlet advertising the local carnival. He then gazed down on his handwritten notes from the interview of an elderly woman whom he’d spoken with earlier in the day. His fingers twitched from the effort they’d gone thru to write this down as fast as possible before any details slipped from his mind. With a deep breath he again pressed play on the digital recording.  
Edna Bainbirtch, Local and lifelong resident of Derry Maine.  
“I survived. That’s all. I don’t know how or why. I can’t explain what I saw. All I can do is tell you what happened and what I saw and hope that you believe me.”  
“Go on Mrs Bainbirtch. I’m listening.”  
“Well, it was a sweltering summer that year. And the circus was in town. Oh! I so wanted to go to that circus!” Light shined in her rheumy eyes as her mind traveled back over 50 years……  
……………….  
12 year old Edna bounced happily away from the lion’s cages, picking soft pink puffs off the large cloud of cotton candy clutched in her other hand. She was so happy she’d pestered Daddy into letting her come!   
The sky was growing purples and blues as the sun set and dusk fell. She headed for the main tent. There was going to elephants and clowns! She could hardly contain her excitement.   
All was silence now around the Lion cages. At least for a few moments. The apathetic beasts had hardly lifted their heads all day. 4 males and 3 females. Captive lions all of them, save one. A massive grizzled lioness. She was the mother of the rest. And unlike her children, she had tasted the wild. Had bathed her toothy snout in the blood of living squirming prey. Had feasted on still breathing quivering meat. Her body was layered with scars and one eye was blind. Tokens of a long ago fight with a leopard intend on consuming a litter she’d later lost to a conquering male lion. Her warrior’s heart had withered and festered away inside this cage for years. Her brood would caper to their captors and one would even let them approach. But not she. She withered away in hate and slept frequently, dreaming of the savanna.   
She tilted her head at a soft noise at the door to her cage. This did not smell like a human. The smell reminded her of the alligator that had nearly killed her as a cub. She watched as a hand, clad in a silken glove, reached forward to on unlatch her cage before disappearing again.   
All the Lion cages were unlatched in this manner. Slowly. And with cold intent. The lioness only hesitated for a few moments before she bounded out. She sat calmly for awhile as one by one her children did the same.   
It was a slaughter. Written in Derrys bloody history in typical fashion. Incidents like 7 escaped lions running amok in a big top was something that would probably only happen in this town. It was the old woman’s words that were truly chilling.   
…………………..  
“I was hiding under a chair. The lights had all gone out except one little one. The screams were so loud that I couldn’t even think. I could see shadows of people running. Once I even saw one the real lions flash about.”  
Hesitation.  
“Real lions Mrs Bainbirtch?”  
Mike remembered the old woman’s haunted stare.  
“Well this is where I’m afraid you won’t believe me. I mean…. The people I told this to told me it was just my terrified little girl brain making things up. I haven’t spoken of what I saw since.”  
“You can tell me. I promise….. I will believe you.”  
Hesitation.   
“Well. You see. I peered out and saw them all after it was quiet. Everyone was dead it seemed.”  
Her voice faltered. Then spluttered forward in gasping rapid fear.  
“There they were. 6 Lions in a semi circle. The old girl lion standing before them. Facing It.”  
“It?”   
Hesitation.  
“A clown. At least It looked like a clown. But It’s face was all wrong. It’s face was monstrous. And It’s eyes were like 2 yellow stars.”   
Hesitation.   
“What happened? What did the clown do?”  
“It…… It bent over and petted the old girl lion. Called her a good girl. All sing song like. Then….”  
Gasping could be heard on the recording.  
“And then?”  
“And then It killed her. Just took It’s big hands and twisted her head all the way around…… but that wasn’t the worst part…… They waited you see…….”   
Hesitation.   
“Who waited?”   
“The others. The other lions. They just stood there like statues. It twisted all their heads and they just stood there waiting for it.”  
Quiet sobs could be heard.  
“You know? Lions used to be my favorite animal. But it was like they weren’t lions anymore. They were just puppets.”  
More hesitation. But this time she continued on without prompt. Babbling.  
“Then It….. The clown….. Started looking around.... And I knew….. I just knew…… It sensed me. It was looking for me. It’s eyes glowed all by themselves as It turned It’s head.”  
“What did you do?”  
“I closed my eyes and curled as small as I could and……… I prayed mister Hanlon. I prayed. I prayed for…… I don’t know how long……. But I prayed. I was still praying when the police found me. I just”  
The words were cut off as Mike switched off the recording.   
His eyes were thoughtful as he stared into space.


	5. Day 5 Stutter

Bill Denbrough sat staring blankly at the television. The news was on. The weather report. He reclined comfortable on his couch, pulling his blanket over himself. His parents weren’t home. He felt so alone. Georgie's empty room upstairs gnawed on his subconscious like a ravenous wolf. He wasn’t paying much attention until the television started to glitch.   
“Its gonna be a balmy day in Bangor tomorrow! Sunny and 72 de-de-de-“  
Bill jerked his eyes to the screen. His blood chilled as he saw that the screen wasn't glitching. The man’s body was jerking unnaturally. As if pushing the consonant out was a literal physical demand upon his body.  
“De-de-de-de-“  
Bill’s eyes widened and his mouth went dry. The weather man’s arms flopped along with the verbal struggle. Bill rubbed his eyes and shook his head trying to clear it. When he opened his eyes again the man was wearing a yellow hat and rain slicker.  
“De-de-de-de-“   
Bill watched in horror as the man’s face started to rapidly decay. Melt. Reform. Shrink. And now it was Georgie’s voice stuttering at him.  
“De-de-de-DEAD. IM DEAD BILL. IM ALL DEAD.”  
“No.” Bill’s eyes clouded with tears. “Georgie.” He reached his hand out.   
“I’M DEAD BILL. AND I FLOAT. YOU WANNA FLOAT TOO BILL? HUH?? YOU WANNA FLOAT TOO WITH ME?” Orange puffs popped out on the buttons of Georgie's yellow slicker.   
Bill recoiled in absolute shock as the clown’s face stared at him from under the yellow hat, his blood red lips parting in a spit moistened grin, his lower lip protruding with lines of drool.   
Bill reached for the remote, turning his head to see where it was. Grasped the long thin price of plastic. His arm tightened and raised as he turned to pelt it at the television.  
And gasped at the weatherman, now placid and harmless, relayed Bangors weather predictions for the upcoming week.  
Bill’s fingers went limp and the remote clattered uselessly to the floor. He raised his hands to his face and wept.


	6. Day 6 Heal

Eddie felt light. His body felt weightless. His skin prickled with electric pulses as he opened his eyes. Was he floating? But he felt no fear. Only warmth and comfort. He looked down at his chest. Saw the bloody hole. Reached a finger up to touch. No pain. Blood on his finger. But no pain.   
He was standing, tho weightlessly so, his feet touching only the darkness of a great void. Blue tinted mist surrounded him. Cool and tingly to his skin. But so very warm open his wounds. It was bright like those horrible deadlights but peaceful instead of chaotic. And he wasn’t alone.  
He didn’t know how he knew this but he did. He looked up to see another man standing in the void. This man was tall and slender. His eyes were dark and gentle. His nose pointed and upturned. Eddie knew this face. Knew it even tho he’d not seen it since his boyhood.   
“Stanley.” He breathed tho his voice made no sound. The other man said nothing. Only smiled and opened his arms. Eddie felt no sadness, only joy. And time flickered as, without any movement or steps, they embraced.   
Pulling back from the hug, Eddie felt a tingling in his chest. Looking down he found that his wounds were no more. He was well. He was healed.   
“Am I dead?” his voice had no sound. Stanley’s smile widened as he shook his head.  
Reaching forward, Stanley placed his fingertips on Eddie’s eyelids, closing them. They felt cold and clean, like ice. Then the fingers were gone.  
Light brighter than the cosmos itself burned into Eddie’s closed lids. A thundering headache blossomed. His chest burned as if it had been shot. His lungs stung as he drew in air. The thundering in his head took up rhythm. A heartbeat. He felt pain.  
He felt ALIVE.  
His eyelids felt as if they weighed a ton but he dragged them open anyway.  
And there they were. His friends. All of them. Beverly and Ben held each other and laughed down at him. Bill and Mike's smiles were more sombre but joy filled nonetheless. But it was Richie that Eddie’s eyes fell upon and fastened to.   
Richie looked down at him. His hair tousled and dirty. His eyes swollen and tear stained. His nose red and puffy. And he had the biggest ecstatic smile Eddie had ever seen.   
“Hiya Eds.”  
Eddie’s voice croaked out in return.  
“You know I hate when you call me Eds.”


	7. Day 7 Knife

Richie Tozier stifles the squeezing pain around his heart. His throat feels as if it is clogged and full. His eyes are red rimmed and nearly swollen shut. He shamelessly uses his sleeve to wipe his nose. Sniffs heavily. Gulps thru the full feeling in the back of his mouth. Feels a vague sense of surprise that he has any tears left to cry at all.  
He then reaches his hand out, laying his palm upon the faded carved letters in the wood. Closing his eyes to remember.   
He can see him inside his mind. Can see both of his faces. Young and old. His desperate aching heart reaches for this most recent face. Older. More handsome. And so brave. Eddie’s eyes burn into the recesses of Richie's hurt. He can remember that stiff upper lip quivering and those eyes flashing with pride. He had hurt It. Oh how proud he had been! But then those eyes clouded forever.  
Richie feels a sob tear from his chest. Rips thru his tattered heart to emerge as a choked cry. His eyes flutter open but his own hand upon the wood is blurry as his eyes spill over again in fresh agony.   
After several deep gasps he closes his eyes again. Reaches for that other face. Eddie. His Eddie. Laughing. Taunting. His young eyes unlined and carefree. Always warning all of them. Even in his naivete he was always trying to keep them safe. To protect them.   
Richie slowly inhales a fragile and gentle peace into his chest. Yes. This is the face he loved best. No. Loves best. Young and old. Innocent love blooms again in his heart, curling and pluming and twining throughout his soul.   
He opens his eyes, a tiny proud pained smile breaking his face and healing his heart. Stabs the tip of the knife into the aged worn and time filled letters. Cleans and finishes the unforgotten handiwork. Then His hands relax.  
He continues to crouch there. His eyes haunted and far away. And there, in the wood. Sharp, well defined, and clean. The evidence of a deep and burning love.  
R+E


	8. Day 8 Memory

Jeannie Thomas tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, spitting more hair out if her mouth as the wind blows another strand in. She stands in front of the utility pole watching the missing pamphlets flutter, one stapled upon the other, as if no one cares for any of the little faces underneath. As if they are forgotten.   
But Jeannie hasn’t forgotten. Reaching up, she grasps the stack, making a fist to crumple several of the pamphlets into before wrenching them off. Cold anger makes her fist shake as slowly, she unclenches her fist to watch the wadded paper skip and flutter away in the breeze.   
Her eyes rest on the bottom page. Betty Ripsom. Her friend. Her only friend. A wonderful and bright person. And nobody seemed to care at all. All these fluttering paper children swirling around Jeannie and nobody remembers them at all. Well, she will keep their memory alive. Turning away, she heads home.   
Other thoughts creep into her mind unbidden. And her anger freezes as fear seeps in. Would she be next? Betty had talked about something following her. Talking to her. A clown. Shivering, Jeannie tucks her hands into her underarms.   
“Hiya Jeannie!” The raspy voice all on its own sends bolts of ice down her spine to curl around her tail bone, making her bowels feel heavy. Her mind screams don’t look. Just run away! And so she does just that.  
Running and tripping and falling. Ripping out a pinkie nail as she claws her way back to her feet. She tries to scream but her throat feels as if it is full of cotton. Her panting breath tastes metallic from blood as her jarring steps cause her teeth to dig into the fatty flesh of her inner cheek.   
A fleeting thought enters her terrified mind. Little Red Riding Hood. That horrible wolf gobbling her up. Swallowing her whole. And then Jeannie hears the snarl of the Wolf panting behind her. This makes a gargled bubbling scream finally erupt from her chest, rattling and strangled in its desperation. But there is no one. The streets of Derry are deserted on this cloudy afternoon.   
7 days later, Preston, a young classmate of Jeannie's watches a stout crying woman staple a missing child’s pamphlet directly over all the others. As if none of those others matter anymore. As if there is no one to keep their memory alive. Below the smiling face with unruly locks of hair reads the name: Jeannie Thomas.


	9. Day 9 Bird

The raven lands upon the cold granite, it’s claws scratching and scraping on the carved edges. It clutches a small fluttering object in it’s large beak. It’s head twitches and jerks as it focuses it’s beady black eyes upon the surrounding quiet of the cemetery. Tiny snowflakes glisten in a gossamer twirling display of icy bluster as the raven ruffles and fluffs it’s feathers to brush them away.   
The bird tilts its head, focusing it’s gaze upon the potted flowers at the base of the stone it sits upon. Placidly watching the snow clump and gather upon the wilted leaves therein. Shakes its head as its breath puffs out in frosty plumes.   
Then it leans forward, cocking its head to look upon the letters on the smooth surface of this gravestone it sits upon. More plumes of breath, before it opens it’s beak to allow the object to plop limply upon the virgin snow at the foot of this small grave.   
Then, it pours forth a gutteral screeching raven's call as it opens it’s great wings, sending flurries of misty snow cascading off the grave's icy face. Sparkles of frozen water in the growing darkness of a winter’s sunset. The bird’s body hunches slightly before it pushes itself heavily off of the gravestone, the flapping of its massive wings audible in the encroaching darkness and snow flurries. Another muffled caw, as well as the melted marks of it’s claws in the snow atop the gravestone, are the only evidence in Derry that it had even been there at all.  
The snowflakes stick in the carved letters upon the grey lifeless headstone. George Denbrough.   
The object the raven had dropped?  
A deflated red balloon, the tiny white heart just barely visible upon its desiccated cracked surface.   
It wasn’t long before the whispering snow flurries entombed this fragment of a tortured past.


	10. Day 10 Summer

The moon glimmers down upon the barrens, it’s pale rays casting a silver sheen on the foliage. Leaves here and there shift subtly in the smallest of breezes. The kind of breeze that heralds a rain storm. It flows languidly as it caresses the grass and brambles and the night. And on the horizon a massive storm cell approaches, It’s plumes and columns flecked with miniscule lightning strikes, and highlighted by the face of the moon.   
The rushing and crackling of the plant life to the breeze slowly intensifies. Rolling booms of distant thunder provide a rhythmic background noise to this. All mixing with the cadence of the crickets on this Summer night.   
The scent of the barrens caresses your nose as you slowly weave your way thru the undergrowth. Cedar, soil, grey water, wild things.   
You’re looking for him. That clown. The one that’s been stealing all the kids. An impulsive decision born of alcohol consumption and a foolish dare. You’d been dared by your friends to capture a picture of the killer clown of Derry. And so, armed with a flashlight, your cell phone, and a pocket knife for defense, you’d ventured in. And now are feeling very foolish.   
You can taste the rain in the air. You’d better hurry or else get drenched.   
“This is utter bullshit.” You are ready to give up after a thorny bramble swats your face, and turn to go.  
And there, in the darkest part of the shadow of a massive tree is …… something. Vermilion eyes burn out at you.   
“Hiya (Y/N)!” The voice is a mixture of small rocks tumbling down a sand bank, a soft man’s voice, and an animal grumble. Like a wicked thing trying to sound friendly.  
“Are ya lookin for ME?” The figure leans forward, the moonlight slowly peeling the darkness from It’s pale face. The painted lines cutting up thru Its eyes making It look more predatory and skeletal than a clown should ever look. The ruff around It’s neck as well the whisps of It’s hair brushing Its cheeks give the effect of a cobra like hood or a mane. It’s lips split in a ragged grin, It’s lower lip drooping low.   
“Well ya found me didn’t ya, (Y/N)?” It chitters and gives a light shake of it’s head, making the tinkle of tiny bells heard in the blackness beyond Its face. Suddenly It’s expression changes to one of wide eyed questioning, a vile mockery of innocence.  
“Say! Do ya wanna play hide and seek?” It’s face tilts as It’s left eye gazes off into the barrens, while It’s right eye still burns into both of yours. You can’t answer. Your tongue feels swollen.   
“Yooouu can hiiiiide.” It’s grin is too wide now. It’s razor teeth poking thru Its own lips in places, sending inky rivulets of It’s own blood floating off into the moonlight. It’s voice slowing and deepening in pitch. Too deep.  
“Aaaaaand I will seeeeek.” It’s tongue clicks on the k. It’s body jerks inhumanly as It crouches forward to pounce, one gloved hand touching Its finger tips to the soil and the other gripping It’s knee.   
A loud yell makes It jerk It’s head away. Someone is near, calling your name. You feel desperate tears prickle your eyelids yet you cannot tear your eyes from this thing. An expression of pure demonic disgust clouds It’s features into a terrifying grimace before It snaps It’s gaze back to you, It’s smug smile returning again.   
“Oh I’ll see you again (Y/N). See you in your dreams.” The most awful giggle follows, and more tinkling bells, before It’s face melts back into the darkness.   
You startle as your friends break into the clearing you’re in and run to you.   
A raging clap of thunder screams out as the rain begins to pour down.


	11. Day 11 Walkman

The warm scents of summer time and of the carnival assail your nostrils in a cacophony. You can smell the bubbling flesh of the deep fried turkey legs. The tart citrus of the lemonade stand. The warm salty scent of buttery popcorn. Even the machinery smell from the shitty rides which probably haven’t been inspected in about your lifespan.   
You curse softly as you gently pull the fluttering shiny string of tape from your walkman. You need a new one. This damn thing keeps trying to eat your tapes.   
Lifting the strand up to the sunshine, you examine it for any flaws. The surface appears smooth. But now there’s like 3 solid feet of tape to twist back in. You huff and gently lay the tape across your lap.  
“I can help ya miss.” A growling voice quips to you. Your eyes are drawn upward. There is a tall lanky man looking down at you. But you don’t really notice much beyond his intense face. His brows are very strong and he has a sharp chin line. His smile is the strangest you’ve ever seen, the lower lip drooping much too low, 2 pointed buck teeth nestled in the moist pink flesh.   
But it is his eyes which capture your attention. You could have sworn they had been molten told at first. But as you focus on them you see that they are, in fact, the most brilliant and captivating blue you have ever seen.   
He reaches down and plucks the tape and it’s exposed contents out of your hands. Careless. And yet extremely gentle.   
“Name's Bobby. And I shall fix your tape miss.”   
You find it difficult to speak. His appearance is both unique and intimidating. You’ve never seen anyone quite like him before.   
“Well it just needs to be wound back in I think.” You finally manage to reply.   
“Oh?” He sticks his slender pinky into the tape and begins to wind. The black strand begins to grow shorter.   
“And what shall ole Bobby get for rescuing your music?” The phrase is made even more unsettling by his lascivious grin and sidelong stare. The brow over the eye nearest you raises in question. And his gaze…….  
You rub your eyes in disbelief. But when you lower your hands it remains the same. The eye nearest you. The one with the raised brow. It gazes upon you with a wicked hunger……. But the other still glares impassively at your tape.   
Your stomach feels as if someone has stuffed it with ice. Something here just isn’t right.  
“Um….. Well……. I can do that myself….. So what do you want for fixing my tape?”   
His caustic grin spreads wider still.  
“I'll do it for a dime, little miss.” He winds the last of the strand into the tape. Then holds it forward for you to grasp. You hesitate, suddenly very afraid. His grin widens as both of his eyes now gaze upon your own eyes.  
He holds very still, waiting for you to make your move. And you do, reaching forward to grasp the small rectangle of plastic. It looks good as new. Impulsively you reach forward to grasp your tape. Yank it from him   
He laughs, the tinney raspy sound making you turn your face away. And then you turn back……. He is no more   
You place your headphones back into your ears.   
Now THAT was unsettling……..


	12. Day 12 Confession

She bows her head into her hands, the guilt swallowing her soul. Tears dribble shamelessly onto her fists. Her sobs are muffled by her forearms.   
“Bless me Father for I have sinned.” She gasps as she moves her arms only long enough to cross herself before hurriedly stuffing her face back into her fists.   
“I….. Don’t remember when I confessed last.”  
The person on the other side is silent.  
“Well,” she gulps bile and continues.  
“I know who’s been….. Taking the children.” More sobs.  
“Tell me.” The voice is raspy and yet still deep. She doesn’t recognize it. She knows the voices of the priests here but this one was different. For some reason the anonymity of this makes her feel a little more comfortable. Calms her a bit.  
“Well. It’s a clown. But…. NOT a clown. It’s different. I’ve seen it. In my dreams. But also when I go places.”  
More silence.  
“I know how crazy I sound. I really do. But I swear I’m not lying. And the worst part….” She begins to hyperventilate.  
“It is alright. Your secrets are safe with the Father .” The voice is oddly hungry. Even more raspy. “You don’t sound crazy to me.”  
Her vision of the screen is clouded with the tears in her eyes. How can she ever verbalize this?  
“I love…… I feel……. Lustful thoughts about him. The clown I mean.” Her face feels too hot as shame burns in her veins.   
“Ooohh?” A barely audible chitter. “How so?”  
“I…… think about him….. At night. Oh I’m so sorry Father! I know it’s wrong! I…… WANT him. I want to touch him. I want to feel him touch me.” She feels her body grow hot at the thoughts her confession evokes. “I want to kiss him. Dear God I want….”  
A soft hiss from behind the screen cuts her babbling short. She looks up to see 2 glowing citrine orbs thru the screen. She suddenly feels cold. Icy cold. She sits up stiffly. The orbs change angle. Following her. Watching her.  
“I…. Uh….. I ask for absolution Father.” She starts to stand then freezes as the voice hisses out to her, darkly and ravenous.  
“Where are you running off to? Don’t ya wanna tell us about your dreams? Don’t ya wanna tell of how you sob after you cry out the name of that clown?” An arm bursts thru the screen to grasp her wrist in a vice grip. The soft silk of It’s glove belies the harsh and evil iron like strength of the hand beneath. The bells on It’s silver sleeve tinkle with It’s movement. She slaps and punches at it with her free hand. But It begins to pull her slowly into the hole where the screen used to be. She wants to scream but her throat spasms with terror. As her head nears the darkness of this opening she can feel the hot caress of It’s breath. Can smell the fetid rot of It’s breath as It rasps out a whisper.  
“Don’t ya wanna confess of the lust you feel while you grasp that sweet little cunt of yours while thinking of a MONSTER?” The raspy voice is nearly hysterical with evil joy. Wicked laughter billows out at her, making her hair blow from her face. Filling Her sinuses with the essence of a bloated corpse. Spittle flecks across her face. And in the darkness The light of It’s eyes illuminates the glistening razor teeth in It’s gaping maw. As if It would consume her very head off her shoulders.   
With a last desperate jerk she manages to rip her arm free. She feels the bones break as she does so but does not care. The scream which has been building in her throat now finally bubbles free. She stumbles out of the confessional and flees, clutching her injured arm to her chest.   
The sound of It’s maniacal laughter follows her.


	13. Day 13 Deadlights

He chokes and gasps as It’s gloved knuckles press into his windpipe. It is grasping the collar of his shirt and although it has torn a bit, it is still tight enough that It’s fists are pressed into his throat. It gazes up at him, It’s eyes a bloody vermilion. It’s brows furrowed demoniacally, It’s mouth twisting in the most disgusted sneer a creature could ever possess. It’s buck teeth drip saliva down It’s plump painted lips onto the flouncing ruff around It’s neck.   
In these last few moments he could remember the bet he’d taken. Could lament his foolishness for coming down into these sewers to find the child eating clown. Alone. But these last moments even, are cut short as It’s bloody red eyes begin to roll back into It’s head. As It’s mouth opens.   
He reaches up to desperately tear at the fragile silk ruffles pluming from It’s sleeves, causing the tiny bells here to tinkle in a tinny hollow sound. But this is to no avail. It’s hungry strength is eternal.  
It’s mouth stretches wide, It’s lips pulling back from It’s razor teeth. Too wide. Impossibly wide. He has no more time to lament past foolish decisions. He gazes down It’s gullet. Sees rows upon rows of crocodilian teeth spanning out and down forever. Globs of spittle drizzle between these teeth in rivulets. It’s throat writhes and flexes open even further.   
He sees a glow in the back of It’s throat shining forth. It glistens off the drool drops and countless teeth. As his eyes focus on the source of this light, his ears pop and every hair on his body stands on end. As if he is feeling the greatest bout of static electricity he has ever felt.   
3 burning amber orbs come into view.   
And his world is gone. Everything he has ever known no longer matters. No longer exists. He can see the endless stretching of the cosmos. Time seems a foolish and trivial thing as he watches worlds being birthed into existence. Watches them rise. Then Watches them die. Whither and burn out. Snubbed out like meaningless embers in an ashtray. Watches their parent stars blaze and sway to the echoes of the dying screams of every singularity to ever exist.   
And the screams……..  
Eternal screams. Sweet glorious pain. Suffering. Fear. Joy. Birth. Surprise. Every kind of scream to have ever existed. The screams of fierce alien beings he could not ever have possibly known. Predatory and gluttonous. Fearful in the dominion of this being which grasped his mortal body. Yet perished eons before his conception was ever thought of. And the screams of his own mother as she brought his squirming pink body into being. Even his very infant screams, smacking of life itself as his tiny lungs expanded for the very first time.   
There were scents here as well. Boiling hydrogen of stars. Icy metallic space dust. Saccharin cotton candy. Salty popcorn. Piss and shit shed from numberless squaling beings. Sweet roses and honey.  
His skin feels jolted by thousands of volts of the most pure electric energy. Agony weeping from his own conscious awareness. An orgasm in every single pore, every follicle pricked to this one awareness. His own skin peeled away in the most pleasurable way that no being could ever imagine.   
And yet there is only one taste on his tongue. Will only ever be one taste. Intoxicating and fearless. Blood. Rich iron filled red blood. As if the very veins of life have burst inside his mouth, his very pallet saturated with it. His physical body twitches as twin rivulets of the fluid run from his nose.  
He is now insane. His mind cauterized of any pleasure or pain save this gaping eternity.   
His vocal chords twitch in ecstasy and a groan of the purest cleanest insanity pours from his chest.   
It’s grip loosens as this man gently floats upwards. His motionless body drifts up to mingle with the bodies of It’s other victims. He occasionally twitches and jerks, bumping the others as they occasionally twist and jerk.   
Such a fine and delicious prize. A worthy snack. A filling meal for the hungry being which gibbers and dances below, throwing It’s head back in the primal joy of a successful hunter.


	14. Day 14 wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Sewerclownhype for the use of her OC <3

Sammy lifts her ebony muzzle, jaws parting slightly, snuffling the wind deeply enough to taste the scents of the night. She can smell the juniper and the pine. The wet rot under the layers of decaying leaves on the ground and the crisp frost on top of them. Steam rolls from her fangs as her tongue flops out and her lips pull back in a wolfen smile.   
Her pelt gleams blue black under the grey kiss of the moon beams. Yet she is a shadow which glides between the swaying trees. The wind is strong this night. There is much noise generated by this and so she doesn’t need to worry about being as quiet or stealthy. She knows he’ll find her.  
Her ears prick and her head tilts as her body jerks to a stop, her muscles quivering under her silky pelt, making the fur sway. A sound carries on the wind. It is one she has never heard before. But it is a sound she’d know anywhere nonetheless. It is a rasping groaning howl. A mixture between a monster’s roar and a terrified scream. It trails along the wind, changing pitch and cadence crookedly, ending in staccato yelp like grunts. The bastard was doing his clown laugh as a wolf. Sammy snorts incredulously and yet feels a strange warmness cradling her thundering heart. He had come. To run with her.  
She answers him. Dipping her face to slowly raise her muzzle in lilting song. Her lips purse and her tongue curls up, sending steam forth. Sending a smooth and haunting call up to the windswept stars. She then waits, as still as death itself. The only movement is her gleaming pelt in the wind and her steamy breath as it dances around her muzzle. He does not keep her waiting for long.   
She has never seen his interpretation of a wolf before and she must admit….. Pennywise makes a gorgeous and kingly specimen. He is massive for a wolf, fully an entire head taller than she. His pelt is a blazing silver, nearly painful to look at in the moonlight. And much thicker than her own svelte skin. Thicker on his upper legs and tapering to smooth silken paws, the silver fading to ice white here. The furry ruff around his neck was nearly mane like. The small ginger patch on the top of his head fades back into his ruff in a thick line. His tongue is blood red, small lines slashing from the corners of his mouth thru his eyes. His tail curls upward more like a husky, yet he appears every inch an alien wolflike monster. He is absolutely gorgeous.   
Amber eyes meet golden eyes before one of the amber eyes winks. He then shakes his head in beastly laughter at her reaction to him. Yet no steam pours from his mouth. Reminding her that this too is an illusion. He then deliberately turns broadside to her and struts. He’s showing himself off.   
She snorts and springs for him. Yet their fighting is much more playful and gentle than it usually is. Two lovers locking arms before the true joy begins.   
With a wolfish laugh Sammy leaps gracefully away and flees, much slower than she is capable of. With a snapping bark which makes his teeth ring out metallic and clean, he gives chase. He follows her.   
They disappear in the tree line, 2 twining shadows.


	15. Day 15 Token

The child stumbles in the darkness. She is long past screaming. For days she has wandered in the sewers. Lost. Missing. Her hunger has ebbed her to trembling weakness. And, although she thirsts, she cannot bring herself to drink the grey water she hobbles thru. Her little fingers trace shapes in the slimy walls of the pipeline as she walks along. She has long grown accustomed to the stench of this place, her watering eyes already nearly swollen closed from crying. And she doesn’t realize……. She is being watched.  
…………………………………………….  
It slathers hungry foam into the water below It’s jaws. This child is practically salting herself! For days It has watched her. For days It has restrained Itself from consuming her. Possessed by an insectile curiosity, It has observed her reactions to this very literal and tangeable sensory deprivation. Has watched her sob for the light. Beg for her birth giver. Has slapped It’s knobby claws to It’s maw to stifle It’s delighted chitters.   
This, It’s brutal and cruel experiment, this missing child crawling around in the pitch darkness of these sewers. It’s realm. Searching for hope. Searching for the light.   
And she shall certainly find light. It snaps It’s fanged buck teeth into It’s knuckles, sniveling thru the droplets of blood which float into the nostrils of It’s button nose, relishing in the cracking sound of breaking bone, in a nearly vain attempt to silence It’s wicked joy. Oh yes. She shall find light. Deadlight. It scampers off, the sound of It splashing away making the child swoon with terror at its echoing liquid noise.  
It feeds now. Sating It’s eternal hunger momentarily on a whelpling foolish enough to stray too far from his mother. These blithering mortals are nearly too easy. But that’s why It likes them so well! Easy pickings! It picks loose flesh and sinew from It’s fangs to chew on them again. So sweet! Luscious innocent fear! Yet It returns to her quickly. She is rarely alone in this darkness, tho it might very well be better for her if she was. It feeds off of her terror, slurping and suckling off the raw emotion which peppers the air. Until one day……. The fear is gone.   
It hisses and twists in the grey water of It’s abode as she passes mere meters away. Where has the fear gone? No more sweet pristine fear is this emotion. Only hollow coldness. The thing has finally given up. Such a shame. It supposes It must eat the thing now. No more fun. Can’t have the thing stumbling out into the world. Can’t have the thing recovering to live out its pathetic existence. Such a waste! But perhaps a few more drops of succulent fear can be wrung from the thing.   
…………………………………………  
A tiny light appears before her. She rubs her eyes with her grubby fingers before looking upon it fully. It buzzes and bips along… like a firefly. She should feel joy. Relief even. But even in her child’s mind she knows this cannot be so. Does not trust this. Yet follows anyway. This tiny light draws her onward, she stumbles over debris in the water and nearly falls, yet clambers upright and continues onward. Reaching out, supplicating with her hands. She doesn’t realize she’s out of the water until the tiny light fades away. She cries again, waterless thirsty sobs. Until she realizes she is no longer in complete darkness. There is a light, dim but sure, drifting down from a source far above.   
Her eyes widen and her little mouth parts in dumb joy. She slowly makes her way into the vast room. There is a massive pile of old discarded objects in the middle of this place.   
The next thing she sees makes her freeze. There are people floating! They appear to be sleeping. He childish mind wonders if this is what happens when one dreams. Does she float as she sleeps?   
The sound of tiny tinkling bells brings her eyes to a large wagon. The paint on the side is faded but she can barely make out the letters. She spells it and sounds it out as she approaches it.   
“P. E. N. N. Y. W. I. S. E. Penny. Wisey.”  
“Very good, Ellie.” The sing song voice makes her jerk around. There standing spotless among the refuse, is a clown. Not like any clown she’s ever seen before tho. Lanky and thin, crouched on one knee, his hands folded primly on his upraised knee. He is dressed in a silver costume very much like the very old dolls she had seen in an antique store once. His eyes are the most brilliant periwinkle blue she has ever seen. They shine from his white painted face, nestled above cherub like cheeks. His red lips are parted in the most unusual smile she has ever seen. The lower lip droops almost in a u shape.   
She laughs, claps her hands delightedly and runs to him. His smile fades for the briefest of moments before immediately righting itself. He holds his arms open to her approach as if waiting for a hug.   
………………………………………..  
It allows her embrace, not returning it, merely draping It’s arms around her as she cries into It’s neck ruff. Where the fuck is her fear? It knows children are trained from birth to avoid strangers. And It’s favorite form is garish even for a stranger. And yet this tiny thing radiates…… not fear……. Something else. Something It has never felt from a human. It has scented this before. It has scented this from the creatures prostrate at their houses of worship where they supplicate some nameless thing. Some ancient deity in the stars. Foolish.   
And yet this emotion radiating from this tiny human is……. Flattering…… it feels pride. A different pride than the paltry smattering after a kill. This…… this is heady. ‘She thinks I am a god.’ It chitters and shakes It’s head, causing It’s bells to jingle and spittle to drizzle into her hair.   
…………………………………………..  
Ellie pulls back arms length from him.  
“You’re not a clown are you.” It was a statement rather than a question. “You saved me. Are you my guardian angel?” He hisses in barely repressed laughter.  
“Hardly child. But I shall be your friend if you wish?” He places his massive gloved hands on her shoulders and turns her to face the wagon. He then places his chin on her shoulder, making his sightline only a little higher than hers. His soft ginger hair tickles her ear. Raising a silk finger he points at the letters and says the words slowly.  
“Pennywise The Dancing Clown.”  
When she turns to him again his eyes are glowing golden orbs, one still looking at the wagon, and the other focusing on her eyes.   
“Your eyes are pretty Mr Pennywise.” This makes the straying eye snap to hers as well. He tilts his head, looking down at her.   
He jerks and snorts from some internal struggle, his face losing its solidity for a moment before righting itself. Lines of spit drip onto his neck ruff.   
“Are you hungry too? I….. I don’t have any food. I’m sorry.” Her face lowers.  
He uses a hooked gloved finger to tip her face back up.  
“Noooooooooo.” He freezes. Much too long, his irises wandering outwards before refocusing. “But I bet you are, aren’t you Ellie?”   
Her stomach growls loudly as she nods. He stands stiffly lifting her as well. Lifting her high to sit on his shoulders. She can not possibly know that this was because this entity knows It will devour her if she remains in line with It’s mouth.   
They are silent as he walks her out of the sewers and into daylight, before setting her gently near the edge of the barrens where It knows that an adult will soon find her.   
“Aren’t you coming too Mr Pennywise?” Her eyes are soulful.  
“I’m afraid not Ellie. I am an angel of the sewers unfortunately. But here. Take a little Token to remember your friend Pennywise by won’t you?” He proffers a large red balloon. She takes it and smiles up at him before turning to walk away.  
……………………………………….  
“You visit ole Pennywise any time!” It’s hold on this town, and a quick sweep of the mind of the whelpling's father tells It that as soon as the girl is returned they shall be leaving Derry.  
It feels inner confusion and rage at It’s own actions. It had released a perfectly good meal! No matter. It waves a hand in a huff before slinking back into the sewer.


	16. Day 16 Spider

The small black spider glides down upon it’s glistening string of web. It’s spindly back legs move rhythmically to unwind itself lower. Dim light glistens off its bloated ebony abdomen, flashing on the red symbol on it’s belly. Then it is still, swaying on the end of it’s little string, it’s front legs outstretched.   
It is hanging a small ways away from the mouth of a sewer pipe. Just far enough back that, if someone should peer inside, they wouldn’t see even a ravenous beast crouching in wait should there be one.   
And there is.  
A hand, clad in a white silk glove, with a sleeve of pure silver lined with a string of small bells, spreads itself calmly below the tiny arachnid. And remains motionless as the spider descends and sways. Till it touches its flailing forelegs onto the wide palm. The creature wobbles as it detaches itself from it's lifeline.  
The hand then slowly rises to bring the spider up to the face of the clown. The spider freezes as it feels the cool snuffling breath on it’s body. Vermilion eyes glow down onto the miniscule killer. The spider lifts it’s forelegs in a defensive gesture.   
The scent of it’s fear causes saliva to pool along the bottom lip of the clown's slack mouth. A droplet gathers on one buck tooth before slowly descending in a long glistening line before dropping onto It’s palm. This startles the spider and sends it scurrying around to the underside of It’s hand. The clown slowly rotates It’s hand so that It’s eyes might follow. It brings It’s other hand up next to the first to allow the creature more space to run along.   
It crouches like this for some time. Allowing the spider to run along It’s slowly moving hands. Simply watching the thing. After awhile the spider ceases her movement. Spider and clown gaze at each other like distant cousins. A large smile breaks the clown’s face, It’s wet fangs sparkling as It’s lower lip droops low.   
A soft sound outside has the clown jerking It’s eyes away from It’s tiny hostage. A man is having a walk thru the barrens. He is drunk. He is lonely. He is afraid. The smile upon the clown’s face becomes obscenely wide. Bears. The man is afraid of bears.   
The clown’s face oozes and bubbles as It’s fangs stretch forward into an ursine snout. It’s nose flattens and flares. Soon the spider is looking placidly at the face of a demoniacal albino grizzly bear nestled in the clown’s neck ruff.   
One vermilion eye watches the pipe opening while the other follows It’s hand as it drops to the dry floor of the pipe and twists to gently deposit the spider here. Watches the little female predator crawl off into the darkness.  
Then, with a snort and a shake, which makes It’s bells tinkle, Pennywise is off to give chase.


	17. Day 17 Slingshot

Todd gazes careful down the strings of his slingshot, moving his small fist slightly to adjust his aim. One eye is tightly closed and the other is squinted. His head is tilted so that one eye is directly behind the fist holding the projectile in place, lining his gaze between the 2 posts of the weapon. His tongue was poking out of one side of his mouth, as if he might be chewing on it in concentration.   
He is aiming at a rusty can propped upon the porch railing of the decrepit house on 29 Neibolt street. This abandoned old place was spooky and lonely and quite frankly Todd’s most favorite place to go when he wants to be alone. Has been his favorite place for as long as he could remember. Not a significant thought to an adult perhaps, but to an 8 year old boy this place is a mysterious haven.   
He doesn’t realize that his little clubhouse has merely been a marker of an ancient evil. A calling card for a dormant and dreaming darkness. And he doesn’t realize that this sleeping beast is no longer sleeping.   
Surely he had noticed the much more prominent gloom around the property. And yes surely he had noticed how all the plant life in the yard was now dead. Yes. He had noticed all these things in a way only a child can. And yet had ignored them as only a child can. Hungry eyes gaze upon him from the pitch depths beyond the window not 3 feet away from his head. Fangs drip saliva and claws are extended.  
He is sitting directly on the porch playing with his new toy, a small pile of smooth pebbles placed carefully at his side. He does not worry about anyone asking him to leave. Nobody ever looks at 29 Neibolt.   
2 vermilion orbs appear in this grimy window, directly behind him. Followed by a leering pale grinning face, inhuman and starving.   
Todd begins to feel inexplicably worried. He can sense He is no longer alone. He gets up as quietly as possible and puts his slingshot in his pocket. Walks down off of the porch and towards the silent street. The front door slowly opens behind him. He stops, sensing something is amiss as every hair on his body feels ignited by ice, prickles, then stands on end.   
At this moment, not far from here, the first loser touches Derry ground, returning after 27 years.   
When Todd turns to see what is wrong, the door is closed. The house is quiet. The gloom is gone.


	18. Day 18 Blood

Pennywise stares at the 3 identical doors, cackling in a wheezing frenzy. Those little snacks are on their way now. It can feel this. What a fun game this shall be! They’ll be so frightened. It grabs It’s silken sides, leaning over and hissing with glee. Saliva sprays from It’s lips and splatters on the floor. Oh but a nice little touch here will do nicely!   
Straightening so fast It’s spine crackles, It’s face still broken by an inhumanly large grin, It tilts It’s head at the door in the center. It freezes here, still as death, one eye on the center door and the other on the window, eagerly gazing out for It’s expected company. The only movement is the line of saliva coming from It’s bottom lip slowly getting longer. The only sound is a slow hiss coming from It’s chest. Like a bicycle tire deflating.  
Suddenly, It strides forward, all confidence. It lifts a swinging set of claws to It’s opposite wrist and presses into the flesh there with the sharp tips till a snapping sound is heard as they pierce. It pauses to admire the large drops which float up around It’s face. Raising a pinky to plug a single nostril, It blows a stream of air from the other to blow the little blood drops about. Then crackles at the joy of watching the drops blip and bounce away.   
Standing now in front of the center door, It dips It’s claws into It’s wrist and uses It’s own blood to write a word upon the old wood, speaking the word in a high pitched sing song voice as It does so.   
“Scaaaaaaryyyyyy.” More hisses of laughter.   
Then, with a jaunty sideways bounce which makes It’s bells tinkle upon landing, It stands before the door on the right.   
“Veeeeeryyyyyyy scaaaaaaaryyyyy.” It’s voice breaks somewhat upon this as little snarling laughs intrude upon the words. Blood leaks upward from the words.  
It then scampers to the left door. But what to write here? Very very scary perhaps?  
NO. It throws It’s head back in pealing laughter as a new idea blooms. And like a boy partaking in joyous mischief, It giggles and snorts as It writes.  
“Nooooooot teheheheee scaaaaaaryyyyy Hehehehee at AAAAAAAALL BWUAHAWHAWHAW!!!” As It finishes It clutches Itself in a hug and skips and jumps and dances with glee.  
…………………………………….............  
It stares down at Beverly’s limp form as she breathes restlessly. The thing had fainted plumb away. She had HURT It. Had just broken It’s face as if this face was meat as soft as any meat in any tender human creature’s abdomen. Hissing It kneels down and touches her cheek with four gloved finger tips. It could just sink It’s teeth into the flesh around her face. Just squeeze It’s jaws slightly. Just peel the skin off her face and then leave her to wake like that. Let her see how it felt to have her face destroyed and hurt. Yet this would spoil the fun. And It intends to wring at least A little fun from this mess.   
Standing stiffly, It turns to walk to the wall, It’s body bubbling and crunching as it increases in size, a boot kicking the head of the father as It passes. It cares not for this blood sack. Like accidentally kicking a wrench or some other tool. Meaningless.  
It stops at the wall, hunched over to avoid mussing It’s hair. This time It’s face is blank and expressionless as It lifts a wrist to bite viciously into it. Doesn’t react as It’s own blood bubbles ascend to kiss and caress It’s cheekbones and eyebrows. Dipping Its gloved fingers in, It is now equally emotionless as It slowly and methodically writes a sentence in large blocky letters across the wall near the ceiling.  
Stepping back and tilting Its head to admire It’s handiwork solemnly before turning around to scoop up the child, cradling her almost like an infant and then creeping away.   
All that is left is a crumpled, bloody form on the floor and a sentence on the wall.  
“You’ll die if you try.”


	19. Day 19 Home

The ancient entity sits with legs crossed. It’s spine is ramrod straight. It’s silk gloved hands placed placidly upon It’s knees. It’s face is relaxed and smooth in silent repose. It’s eyes are closed. It almost appears as if It is about to meditate.   
It’s thoughts are empty at first, the creature merely taking in the sounds and scents of the environment around Itself. The sound of the cool night breeze rustling the foliage. The chirping crickets. The call of a Nightingale. The grey water tinged green scent of the barrens It sits within. It’s neck ruff and the plumes at It’s wrists flutter and It’s tiny bells tinkle quietly in this breeze.   
Slowly It tilts It’s face skyward, It’s eyes still closed. Listens now to the heavens and their thunderous sound.   
Slowly It’s eyelids peel back, revealing eyes so blue they can be seen from several feet away. Two brilliant beacons facing the stars. It’s pupils shift and dilate, taking in the cosmos. Observing dying stars and stars being born. Watching the icy dust of long dead worlds swirl thru interstellar space.   
Somewhere up there is It’s origin. It’s birthplace. It’s home.  
Closing It’s eyes again, It remembers now. Swims back thru epochs of time. Remembers It’s youth, if It ever had one. It does not often dwell on these things. Perhaps usually only in the deepest dreams of It’s long rests.   
The slight crisp of a brittle leaf being stepped upon causes It’s head to snap down and swivel around, nearly 180 degrees, It’s neck bones popping out. It’s eyes now burn vermilion as hunger wets It’s loose lower lip with saliva.  
But it is only a doe. Slipping quietly thru the barrens seeking the evening’s meal. As It shall be doing very soon. The innocent creature doesn’t even notice the presence of this eldritch abomination. And after registering the presence of the deer in turn, the clown dismisses her in It’s mind. It does not often even recognize the presence of such lesser beings and has little interest in the shallow paltry fear they produce.   
It gives a final glance to the sky before creeping off to find the juicy visceral human meal of fear It so craves.


	20. Day 20 Float

Albert sits placidly on the bench watching the murky water flow by in the canal. It is nice to have a dry spell amongst all this rain Derry has been having and he is determined to take advantage.   
He stretches out his old bones and rubs his arthritic knee. It is so nice to see the sun. It glints off the water caps in jagged shards and flashes. Albert adjusts his thick glasses as he spots something bobbing in the water.   
It is a paper boat. On the side in childish script is “S.S. Georgie.”   
“Well that’s a strange sight. Somebody must be missing their boat!” Albert adjusts his glasses again before dismissing the little paper boat as it floats away.  
He chuckles as he pulls a newspaper out of his underarm underneath his coat. It crinkles as he opens it. Looking for the comics, the “funnies” as he calls them, he also dismisses a small article on page 2. It is smashed into a few columns towards the bottom of the page underneath a small picture of a smiling boy. As if it was purposefully tucked away here to be forgotten.   
Missing Boy. George Denbrough.


	21. Day 21 Scars

All is silence in the pitch black cavern. No echoes. No dripping water. No noise. Only muted quiet. As if it were the desiccated mummified chest cavity of some massive beast. This hollow soundlessness is the sound of death in all it’s ancient and timeless doom. There is nothing left here in this place. No hope. No joy. No fear. No pain. Only motionless black. This place is an empty ruin.  
Or so it seems.   
There is a large inky black and spiky monolith in the middle of this place. And at it’s center, a small pile of crispy pitch like ashes. Burned out debris surrounds this little mound. And 3 clouded grey orbs. Dull and lifeless like 3 crystal balls which have summoned forth too many ghosts.  
And yet, no matter how hard a group of children may try to change something, no matter how they might try to rewrite the codes of an ancient law, there still exists a burning truth in this universe. Unpleasant. Dark. Terrifying. A pounding and yet fleeting fact that can be ignored, shaded over, and forgotten, yet never completely subdued.   
You cannot kill darkness itself. You cannot destroy destruction, nor consume consumption. Light cannot exist without darkness. Joy cannot exist without pain. Creation creates a stifling and smothering overcrowding without destruction. But most importantly……. Although one might smite the physical nature of an ancient monster, one cannot touch the soul of another being which resides outside the laws of this wretched and massive universe. This stale dimension which pales in comparison to another dominated by God like beings which make it their pastime to belch forth universes or in turn consume them. Or does no one ever wonder what made the cosmic turtle sick in the first place? Sick to the point of vomiting our very existence out of the macroverse. It has often wondered at this. For It knows that perfection is a farce. That there is nothing which blossoms that does not come without some cost, great or small. But now It is at rest.   
It’s cycle has lasted much longer than normal. It’s destroyers long gone. Forgotten. Resting as one with the weeds. In It’s dreams It ponders if It shall even return at all. Perhaps this eternal dream is better. This dream is gentle floating in a sea of darkness and peace. No form. No pain. No searing hunger. No all consuming loneliness. But nothing lasts forever it seems.   
In It’s dreams It senses the beckoning pull of life. Of living. And although It has no form, It reaches out, invisible claws scraping and clawing at the void. Tearing and prying at the barrier between this darkness and that life. Just as It had eons ago from the anticosmos in which It had tasted birth.   
In the darkness of the cavern a tiny light appears, pulsing and faint. It is a pin of light swirling around the gloomy clouds inside one of the previously hollow globes of the deadlights. As it swirls, it gathers dust from it’s little biosphere, increasing in size, jostling the orb and causing it to roll forward. Crushing the delicate ashy shape of a now forgotten form it rolls on to bump another cloudy empty orb with a glassy metallic sound.  
The first orb is now completely full of light and leaves the ground to hover over its dead brothers. Or at least they had been dead. For now the orb that had been bumped by the first now emits the glow of a tiny swirling light which causes it to sway. As this bead of light grows larger the first orb, now blazing like a miniature star, drifts over to tap the third dark orb, which starts an identical chain reaction.   
Soon the 3 regenerated deadlights are skipping and dancing and emitting a giant whirring sound. It is as if they are expressing their joy at a fresh life. They twist and sway and dip around the monoliths, causing the dust of the ground to swirl in figure eights.   
Then they speed up so fast they appear as blinding white lines and surround the tiny black ashy mound which had been the home of their earthbound consciousness. And use the wind generates by their speed to twist these ashes into every shape It has ever taken all in a few moments. Then they speed up even more. Becoming so bright that, had a mortal been in this chamber, they surely would be struck blind. The blinding and holy light of unholy creation. The creation of an ancient horror. The recreation of consumption.  
And suddenly they still to the point of twisting slowly in place, casting their light upon the naked, pale subject of their ministrations. It reaches out It’s claws, stretching the muscles and tendons of this form, enjoying the sensations of being ALIVE once more.   
A sharp pain in It’s chest causes It to gaze down upon Itself. A large puckered scar encompasses It’s entire breast bone. A reminder of what It has seen. Of what It has lost.   
And yet, It feels no hatred for those beings. Not anymore. Nor does It feel fear. Only hunger. Along with all of the other blissful physical sensations of living, the hunger has also returned.   
Standing, It shrugs It’s shoulders gracefully, pulling It’s favorite costume from It’s own consciousness. Sighing as the silk glides along to encompass It’s flesh.   
Pennywise lives.


	22. Day 22 Fear

It’s chest constricts painfully, as if trying to jerk away yet too weak. But Mike Hanlon is unrelenting as he reaches down. To hurt It. To tear out It’s immortal heart.   
For eternity It has tasted fear and flesh and the delightful joy of the kill. Danced upon bones. And sang It’s darkling song to the smoldering shells of hollow worlds It has picked clean. But that is now coming to an end. So soon. Too soon.   
And yet, even as the man’s large hand comes between It’s eyes and It’s deadlights It knows that It is not truly sad. Has known that this would happen. Is almost relaxed to the idea of this. But the one thing It cannot shake is It’s own fear. It cannot submit. Cannot allow Itself to die. This is the nature of all living things. To live. To continue to exist. This is why the zebra, brought down by the lion, continues to kick and struggle even as the predator begins to feast. This is why flower blossoms live on for days even as their shorn ends shrivel inside a vase, even tho they are dead already. This is even why bridge jumpers are heard to scream before they hit the water. Not an incessant zest for life. But the fear of what awaits beyond. And this is the fear It now feels.   
For a part of It has always known this would happen. Has yearned for this even. After millennia of killing. Destroying. Then hiding away on this pathetic rock in a stale rut of binging and sleep……… It has come to need these creatures. To rely on them even. It’s days have grown meaningless and have run together. These human children were the first beings to bring CHANGE to It’s existence. It had not wanted change. But once change had happened It had found It could think of little else. Had told Itself It must draw them here and end them. But in the back of It’s mind It had known. Had known that there was nothing new to discover. Nothing different to explore. And so in the sameness of this, It had believed for a moment the names they had hurled upon It. And that had been enough to make It’s spirit wither. And so It’s form had withered.  
Above their heads the deadlights rage. Spinning and twisting so quickly that their whirring sounds as like a billion screams would sound flowing thru the ether of the space between 2 universes. Black smoke belches out of them as they sway in their last inhuman tremble. As they perform their death knell.   
The tiny shriveled clown reaches forward with It’s hands in one last desperate attempt to ward off the inevitable. As the tips of Mike’s fingers press into It’s fragile chest It knows that to fight is to no avail. For the human is too strong now. It’s ancient journey is finished.


	23. Day 23 Glasses

Richie takes his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose. Jeez he’s tired. As he goes to slide them back on his face a blur catches his eye at the center of the empty lot. But is gone as soon as the thick lenses slide over his pupils. He freezes. His blood running sludge like and coagulated as slivers of ice creep up his spine.  
Before him is an empty lot. A field really. Just overgrown grass and weeds. A sign near the edge boasts of the mall that will soon be built here. The sky is cloudy and grey. The tall weeds sway in graceful waves with a particularly strong wind. Although the wind has an Autumn chill to it, it feels warm to Richie's frozen blood.  
There had been something standing there. He KNOWS there was.   
“Okay, Trashmouth, pull yourself together.” He removes his glasses and uses the middle, ring, and pinkie fingers of each hand to deeply massage his tired red rimmed eyelids. Sighing as he lowers his hands, he opens his eyes to look upon the blurry landscape, his hand holding his glasses limply at his side.   
And freezes yet again.  
There is a figure. Tall and silver. And although it is blurry, Richie can still discern the shock of ginger hair atop It’s head. It is as still as the breezy grass is not. In terror, Richie slams his glasses on his face, in order to see the wretched clown’s next move.   
Then gasps at the clearly defined and now empty field.   
The clown HAD been there. He KNOWS it. And It had been CLOSER. He knows this too.   
And then he has a hunch. One he wishes he didn’t feel the compulsory urge to explore. But he does. With a shaky hand, Richie pulls his glasses far enough down the bridge of his nose to expose his eyes to the field without their assistance.  
And there It stands. Stone still. A demonic and manic smile on It’s face. The fingertips of It’s gloved hands splayed outward and down. Richie can hear the brushing sounds the weeds make on It’s silken hands and suit. The fucking thing is now less than 15 feet away.   
Richie suddenly wishes Eddie was here. He’d snag his damn inhaler for a puff or 2. His lungs feel as if they are closing in horror. He smooshes the glasses back over his eyes. IT HAD BEEN CLOSE ENOUGH FOR HIM TO SEE IT’S SMILE.  
The fuck if he is taking them off again. The FUCK if he is!  
His fingers reach up, almost against his will, to touch his glasses. But before he can grip them he hears a hissing voice so close to his ear he can FEEL the fetid breath.   
“Ready to be on a poster, Richie?”  
He whirls but there is no one there. Only an empty street.  
“FUCK THIS!” Richie flees.


	24. Day 24 Sink

Jacob blinks rapidly in the darkness as his hand flutters around on the wall, searching for the light switch. He can feel the terror, overwhelming and animal like, threading around his spine like some scurrying rodent. He’s always hated the dark. Always felt that other presence.   
____________________________  
It was usually at bed time that he felt it. After his mother had kissed his forehead and tucked him in. After she had said good night. Long after the boy’s imagination painted colorful images to dance along to the bedtime stories she’d read. It was a consistent and profound fear. Completely forgotten in the morning. Rarely thought of throughout the day. Occasionally mentioned in the evenings, although rarely. Soft and distant. Yet always waiting in his closet and under his bed. Always waiting for his mother to close that door. For the light to be turned off. Simpering and chittering yet silent as death. Watching the boy frantically making sure his toes are under the covers. Making sure that every part of himself is neatly tucked inside his blanket save the top of his face. Hissing and slathering in equal silence as the whites of Jacob’s frightened eyes flit around in their sockets. Looking for It.  
It is always the same game. Jacob trying to find out exactly where the monster is hiding. IS THAT THE THING??? No. It is a sweater draped over the chair in front of the little desk in the corner of his room. Only a shadow in the gloom. The twisted hunchbacked shape merely the product of average darkness. Or perhaps the monster is under Jacob’s bed. Just waiting for him to fall asleep, to kick a foot out from under his covers. Waiting to chew the boy’s toes off and nibble on the bone. Jacob has nightmares of this. In these nightmares some tiny hell beast has saliva like a bedbug. Numbing as it bites. Disguising the agony that is SUPPOSED to happen at such things so that in the morning Jacob might slowly awaken to stretch in the sunlight, throw his covers back, and discover a painless bloody stump where his foot used to be.  
If Jacob is lucky, he’ll fall asleep to dreams like this. If not….. Say perhaps his mother lets him have some soda, or he manages to get a hold of a piece of sugary candy, or maybe even just that he’d played too hard after supper and was still too restless to fall asleep. If he is not lucky, he lays there pondering what the beast must look like. Tonight is one of those nights. He uses the logistical power of a child to ascertain this. No why or how. Only the pure certainty and physicality of that knowledge.   
He knows It must be small to be able to flit from shadow to shadow in his room without him ever seeing It at all. He imagines something rodent like. His child’s brain conjures forth an image from his mental clay.   
First a corgi. As he simply knew it’d be that size. Then, his mind twists and contorts the dog to fit the convoluted expectations of his frightened mind. Stretching the dog’s body like fresh putty. Long. Longer. Too long. Curving the back upwards and bowing It’s legs so that It is forced to scamper like an overgrown, but still very fast lizard. It’s tail hangs limply, sweeping the ground like an alligator tail as It capers thru the misshapen shadows. It’s mouth stretches impossibly wide as It’s teeth lengthen and sharpen into rows of fangs that gleam wetly and silver until they resemble actual steak knives in It’s head. The lips are pushed back until both It’s eyes and ears are swallowed by these folds of skin. It’s fur darkens and begins dripping with moisture……   
The boy sits upright in bed sharply. He’s forgotten something very important yet he cannot remember just what. His heart flutters as he realizes that whatever it was is something he NEEDS to remember. Something that if he doesn’t remember…… he could DIE. Jacob doesn’t know what an anxiety attack is but he’s certainly having one.   
And……… he really has to pee.  
And now he is here. His heart beating so fast that it feels as if it will tear it’s way up his throat. He KNOWS something is here, just WAITING to pounce upon him and turn him into a dead body. He’s seen one of those. His grandpa’s funeral. He doesn’t want to be a dead body.   
His voice bubbles out in a crackled squeak of relief as his fingers finally find the light switch and flip it. Glaring light chases any rat monsters away. Jacob does his business before going to the sink.   
He takes a moment to look at his reflection. He’s a pale and sallow boy, thin and haunted looking.  
He then washes his hands, quiet and business like, as any good boy should. Before turning the water off he splashes the nice warm water on his face. He does this several times, enjoying the warm comforting feel. Then, keeping his eyes closed, he reaches blindly to turn the faucet off, then grabs the hand towel next to the sink to dry his face. He enjoys the soft texture of the towel as well. As he lowers the towel he sees that the sink is clogged and full of water.   
He raises an eyebrow as he sees that the water is brown and clouded. And just as suddenly the smell of rotten warm shit hits his nostrils. He stifles a gag as he realizes he must have splashed this all over his face. He leans over and retches vomit into the water in the sink.   
He continues to gag and retch and dry heave for some time before simply standing there with tears in his eyes. As his eyes clear he notices something among the brown and vomitus. Or 2 somethings rather. 2 somethings that turn his blood into ice and leave him very well frozen and unable to move.   
2 beady red eyes stare out at him from just underneath the surface of the shit water. Even as he registers exactly what these 2 things are, small bubbles begin to pop up in between the 2 eyes making wet plinking sounds.   
Finally, Jacob is able to move, stumbling away clumsily as his feet and hands are numb with terror.   
He watches as the thing from his nightmares, the twisted reptilian rat creature, crawls sloppily from the water onto the edge of the sink to sit and stare at him. Only……. It’s WORSE than his most virulent and horrifying imaginings. It’s body appears to have been stretched even further, nearly snakelike, and looks as if it has been twisted and broken many times. It’s spindly legs ropey with muscle and It’s knees are bent in the wrong direction, making the thing stand like a 4 legged spider. It’s froglike feet are tipped with razor claws. It only has tufts of hair, sodden and dripping, emitting a fetid steam. As if It’s skin is rotting.   
Jacob’s knees fail and he plops on the floor, directly and painfully onto his bum. His mouth is open but only hollow wheezes come from his lungs.   
He watches as the one thing he remembers exactly becomes visible. The creature slowly begins to open It’s terrible maw, the steak knife teeth framing the impossibly deep recesses of It’s gullet.   
Only It’s gullet is not a deep dark hole.   
Jacob can see 3 tiny lights spinning and swaying as the sound of rich and frothy screaming bombards his ears.  
And suddenly………. The fear is gone.  
Jacob is floating.


	25. Day 25 Neibolt

The clown gazes down at the green grass covering the grounds at the rear of 29 Neibolt. It is waving slightly in a warm gentle breeze. It can feel the caress of this breeze cause a cooling feeling on It’s saliva coated chin. It snorts and shakes It’s head at the sensation.   
It lifts Itself to crouch in the sill of the window It has been standing at and crouches here, one of It’s hands splayed upon the wood by It’s boots. Claws tear thru the silken glove of It’s other hand as it grasps the side of the window. Snapping brittle sounds ring out as the trim breaks.  
The muscle tone under It’s sleeves writhes and flexes as It slowly lifts It’s feet, supported on It’s arms alone, as It kicks It’s boots forward and vaults Itself out of the window. One sharp snarling laugh rings out as It free falls to the swaying grass below. It lands sharply upon one knee, the joint digging down into the wet sod. It’s bells tinkle on impact.  
Standing slowly, It pulls the undamaged glove off, revealing a pale hand with blackened fingertips. The other tattered glove It simply rips away carelessly.   
Then It kneels before a rosebush growing haphazardly near the side of the house. It focuses It’s attention upon a plump bloom, cupping It’s palms around the lush flower.   
The rose immediately begins to dry up and wilt. It’s mouth creases into a pleased snarl as It’s hands leech the life of the bloom. Then It crushes the bloom within It’s 2 fists and crackles as the drying rot continues down the stem. Brown crispy petals and leaves circle aimlessly in the breeze as the entire bush almost quivers at the impending death being wrought upon it. Hissing sounds whistle thru It’s clenched teeth as the entire bush, now dead, sags to the ground.   
The bones in It’s spine crack as It stands rapidly and begins to walk in aimless circles around the yard, trailing It’s finger tips over the bladed heads of the grass. Drawing crop circles of withered blight on the grounds of It’s home. Skipping and dancing as It kills every plant in sight.   
It stands on the porch to survey It’s work. Then laughs raucously as It returns to the house, slithers down the well, and howls It’s glee into the sewer.


	26. Day 26 Farm

Kevin snaps the double barreled shotgun open. The noise outside is getting worse. It sounds as if something is murdering his horses in their stalls. Their cries echo out in scream like whinnies, audible even over the storm. He slides a loaded shell into each chamber before jerking the firearm closed.   
He slides boots onto his feet hurriedly and rips the door open. He is immediately dowsed with buckets of rainwater. He has to pull to close the door behind him as he steps out into the night, the wind howling and pushing back. The beam of his flashlight illuminates the large flooded barnyard of his farm as he sloshes thru it, wiping his sodden hair out of his eyes and coughing at the water spraying into his face. The cries of his horses continue to ring out.   
Shouldering his shotgun, Kevin spies a bright yellow object on the muddy ground near the barn doors. Shaking his hair out of his face like a dog, he bends over to retrieve this object.   
And his blood runs even more icy than the rain. It’s David’s rain slicker.   
Kevin stands idly in the downpour, his face slack. The horses continue to cry out but he doesn’t notice anymore. His mind is elsewhere. Nearly 2 years ago. The day his son had gone missing.   
David had been such a bright boy. But had gone missing one evening while out in the barn. He’d been mucking stalls as a punishment for some transgression that Kevin couldn’t even remember. The guilt eats him alive to this very day.  
Kevin is a realist. He knows that his David is gone. So this can be only one thing. Someone is taunting him. He feels a cold seeping hatred wrap around his heart and settle amongst his already chilled bones. He presses down both hammers of the shotgun, inhales a deep breath, and throws open the barn door.   
The horses nearly trample him as they burst thru, fleeing the darkness behind them. Kevin is thrown to the ground, still clinging to his gun. By the mercy of some higher power, the weapon does not discharge. He cranes his sopping face to look inside. There is nothing but silent pitch darkness.  
Kevin stands, his body beginning to shiver from the chill rain, shoulders his shotgun and holds the flashlight forward, like a weapon as he walks inside. Someone has opened all the stalls, which is why the horses had been free.   
“COME OUT HERE!” Kevin yells, his voice cracking with hatred and pain.   
“COME OUT HERE AND SHOW YOURSELF!” Kevin then bites the small stem of the flashlight so that he can hold the gun with both hands. With it cocked and raised, the butt resting on the meat of his shoulder, Kevin begins to search the barn. The stalls are empty. Lowering the weapon in confusion Kevin wonders if whoever had done this has already fled.   
Then He hears a distinct rustling coming from the stalls nearest the door. The stalls he knows he’s already searched. He chooses not to dwell on this and circles around to research. All are clear up to the stall closest to the door.   
He expects it to be empty, and so nearly spits his flashlight out when he sees a clown staring down at him. Kevin doesn’t hesitate, even if he knows this thing can’t be real. He fires both shells into It’s chest at point blank range. The flash from the report blinds Kevin for a few moments. The jarring from the blast causes the flashlight to go out.  
Kevin spits the cylinder into his hand and slaps it on his palm, trying desperately to get it to come back on, the gun dropped on the straw, now useless in its unloaded state. His breath comes out in wheezes as he beats the light. It finally comes on, tho it’s light is now flickering and weak. And what he sees makes him drop to his knees in despair.  
It’s David. His son. Laying lifeless, in the very same clothes he’d been wearing that fateful day, and with a big bloody hole in his chest. Kevin let’s out what can only be described as a wail, falling over the body of his son. Not caring about the blood. His mind so full of horror, as he lifts the small body to himself and clings to it.   
Suddenly the corpse turns It’s head to whisper in Kevin’s ear.  
“You killed me, daddy.”  
Kevin flings the child to the straw and is then frozen on his knees, transfixed to the horror before him.   
His son, David. His only son. Is sitting cross legged in the straw, his eyes glow golden. And he’s laughing the deep baritone laughter of a demon.   
“Can’t kill meeeee.” The thing chitters. “I’m not reeeaaal.” Kevin watches in terror as orange poofs burst out from the front of David’s red plaid shirt. There is no trace of the bloody hole.   
Kevin stands and runs from the barn screaming shrilly.


	27. Day 27 Photo Booth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This ain't in character. Whoops

“C’mon Penz you GOTTA!” You chime excitedly, pulling Pennywise into the photo booth. He is in his Bob Grey form and looks uncomfortable and so adorable.   
“I do not wish to do this. It is foolish. Come. Let’s go to your home and watch Frankenstein and have popcorn. I do so love popcorn.” He knows damn well how much you love black and white films. And how much you love watching him make a fuss over your human food. It’s a low blow. But you stand firm.  
“Not today, clown boy! Today we become immortal!”  
“I’m already immortal Y/N.” He grumbles but allows himself to be drug inside and sits complacently as you drag the curtain closed. Then looks up at you, cocking a brow in confusion as you stand with your arms crossed and wait expectantly.   
“What is it now, child?”   
“Well…….. Put ya clown on!”   
“Clown on? You mean my clown form? Why? You made quite the fuss about me not looking like a clown and now you wish for it? You humans are strange and fickle.” For an eldritch abomination, he sure looks damn cute when he’s annoyed. You’re not the pouting kind so you shoot for annoyance and cajoling instead.  
“Pupupupleeeaaase??? I’ll put the ranch flavored popcorn salt in your popcorn later!” This sparks his interest.   
“I like the ranch flavor.” He decides to push his end. “Can I have French fries too?”  
“Yes! I’ll get you a whole Big Mac meal! Just pleeeeeaaaase?” You pout anyway.  
“No. I want the toy.” Bobwise crosses his arms indignantly.  
You rub the bridge of your nose, trying to stifle your laughter. “Yes Penz I’ll make sure you get a toy.”   
The tall man sighs, as if this is the gravest decision he has ever made in his life. “Very well. Shake on it.”  
“Yes!” You reach out to grasp his hand. And gasp as the warm rough skin of a man’s hand changes to the warm soft feel of a silk glove encasing an equally strong hand. You always love watching him change this way, right before your eyes.   
You watch as the sleeve of Bob’s far too old fashioned tweed jacket, which the handsome devil STILL manages to somehow rock, morphs into the grey silk of the clown. The silk ruffle around his wrist tickles your knuckles. The skin of his face leeches bone white as his lips turn bloody red and lines extend from each side of his mouth to cut up thru his eyes. His hair coifs itself into the style the clown loves best. His neck ruff blossoms like the gossamer petals of a flower, nestling under his face. Soft popping sounds are heard as orange puffs burst from the front of his costume. Your mouth goes dry. This is definitely your favorite form of his as well.   
He gives and exasperated sigh and waves a hand dismissively. “Are you satisfied?”  
“Very.” You croak. He’s so enormous….. You’ll have to sit on his lap. His face breaks into a lascivious smile as he pats his lap. You roll your eyes and plop unceremoniously onto his lap as hard as you can and cross your arms to pout.   
“Don’t be a child.” He reaches forward to activate the pictures.   
“So says the guy that wants a Happy Meal.” You grin as the machine does its work.  
After it is finished you grab his hand to pull him out. “Let’s get our pictures! Ooo I’m so excited!” Your body jerks as if you are pulling an immovable object. You turn to him. “C'MON! Put your Bob back on and let’s go!”  
“Oh? And what shall I get for that?” His grin is downright evil.


	28. Day 28 Brave

She focuses on the ripples on the opaque water below her. The moonlight glimmers upon the surface of the quarry, making it appear as flashing liquid obsidian. COLD and fierce and black as her heart. Empty of life or meaning.   
She stands upon the cliff face, the icy winter wind making her hair brush upon her cheeks and lips in a chill imitation of affection. The irony is not lost on her. The porcelain rays of the moon give her face a chalky cadaver like appearance.   
Her heart feels so heavy that it might fall out of her chest. The trail of her tears appears crystalline and the cold bites into these trails with a keen sharp edge.   
Listlessly, she lifts a thumb to brush a tear. Then ponders the droplet, watching it sparkle, before removing her jacket. She WANTS to feel colder. She doesn’t know why. Doesn’t question. Only knows that feeling the wind skim painfully along her skin thru her thin shirt feels better than the heavy hungry hole inside her chest which masquerades as a heart. The pain of it feels like LIFE. Something that has developed the taste of ashes recently. Dull. Pointless.  
What is the point? Does it have any meaning? Or is this just some blind and pathless blip in the insectile and machine like operations of this world.  
She hears the tinkling of tiny bells behind her. There is someone else here. Her mind conjures the image of someone behind her lifting a foot to kick her over the cliff face. To send her plunging to the icy blackness which ripples below her, waiting like a hungry beast to embrace her in numbing womb like comfort. And whispers the sweet promise of simply not having to CARE anymore.   
Closing her eyes and raising her head, she spreads her arms. She revels in the tactile sensations of the cold breeze burning her wet lashes and fluttering her sleeves as if she were a floating snowflake. She does not have the will to jump. Yet she has no intention of screaming if she is pushed.  
Behind Her, golden eyes watch this movement. Nostrils set in a blood red nose flare to catch the scent of her emptiness. She smells of the quarry. She smells of its cold rocky depths. The scent of her skin and blood and heart blend with the commercial scent of her clothes and mix with the moving air to create the impression of a barren lake suspended in the sky over a dead city. This creature is the most lifeless and cold living thing It has ever scented.   
It cocks It’s head in bland curiosity. Then purposefully presses It’s boot to crunch into the frosty grass, tilting It’s head to listen to her thoughts.  
She is annoyed at having her loneliness interrupted. Hopes It might end her. And yet her withered spirit cries out for some sort of comfort she would never allow herself to accept anyway.  
It has never tasted the scent of one who would wish for their own end. And the taste of it does not spike It’s hunger now. This emptiness leaves a dry and papery taste upon It’s salivary glands. Utterly flavorless. She is not even sad. As if she exists in a reality far beyond sadness. It takes another step forward. And still she does not turn.  
“Just fucking do it already.” Her voice cracks out as her chilled teeth click on the consonants. Yet neither of them are startled by the break in the lonely song of the wind on the water. The interruption is momentary as the sound continues. As if the ghost of an orphaned wolf bounds upon the quarry, lending it’s haunted lilting voice to the sky.   
“And what would you have me do, child?” It’s voice is cracked and yet childlike. The voice of a frozen cherubim.   
“I don’t fucking know. Whatever you’re going to do.” It drops to crouch on one knee as she huffs and finally turns, eyes widening at the vision before her.   
It’s a clown. The strangest clown she’s ever seen. It’s silver suit shifts with the wind like fur. The edge of It’s ornate neck ruff billows up to tickle It's lips, which appear black in the muted light. Tiny bells on It’s suit ring out and blend in an oddly beautiful way with the crying wind. It’s ginger hair is perfectly coifed and yet still sways in small movements with the air, the curl on the top occasionally brushing the wide expanse of It’s cracked forehead.   
It’s face is skull like. Ice white. It’s eyes glow gold, illuminating the darkness around It’s face, and are set in 2 black rimmed sockets. It’s expression is blank and statue like. Crouched like this, It appears very much like a predator waiting to spring. But waiting for what?  
“Why are you here?” she asks caustically.  
“Why are you here?” It repeats her question. Tho It’s tone is surprisingly gentle compared to It’s appearance. It tilts It’s head. It is curious.   
“Oh I don’t know.” She huffs again, turns back around, and sits directly on the cliff face, her shoes dangling over the void. It watches the bones of her vertebrae press into her shirt as she shivers. She wraps her arms around herself.  
It is instantly by her side, sitting as she, It’s own long legs dangling below hers. So swift and silent that this time she DOES gasp. It turns It’s face to gaze at her, one eye focused on her face and the other gazing out at the lake.  
“You’re not scary. I mean….. A clown? It doesn’t even make sense.”  
It’s mouth splits into a grin as It kicks It’s feet back and forth, the bells tinkle in a merry rhythm. “Sometimes the most scary things are the things that don’t make sense.”  
Her chest constricts painfully as if not used to the humor she feels at this statement. “You can say THAT again.” She frowns.  
It’s eyes widen in confusion but It concedes to humor her. “Sometimes the most scary things are the things that don’t make sense. Did I speak unclearly?”  
This time she cannot help the small laugh. She presses a hand to her sternum in a physical reaction to the pain the unwanted emotion of humor causes here.  
“No. You didn’t. I heard you. So…… who are you?”  
“I’m Pennywise. The Dancing Clown of Derry Maine.” This is spoken in a sing song voice as the clown swings It’s feet and raises a hand to sweep over the landscape in a flourish. “And you, child. You are empty.”  
“That’s none of your business.” Her teeth give a few involuntary shivering snaps. She realizes her fingertips are numb. She must be hallucinating this because of the cold. She turns to look at the clown.  
It is no longer smiling or kicking It’s feet. It is merely watching her with that same impassive face. She feels her pulse quicken as she realizes…… It’s really quite beautiful in a very dark way. Like A lion humoring a hummingbird.   
Suddenly the clown tilts It’s head back to bark out a series of guffaws. It is laughing at her. “You think I am beautiful then? Tell me, why do you not cover yourself? Your body is failing. You cannot sustain your temperature.”   
“Maybe I don’t care if my body fails.” She doesn’t bother to question how It knows her thoughts. It is an hallucination after all.   
“I am no figment of your hypothermia, little human.” It throws her coat over her shoulders. She doesn’t know how It has procured it. Against her own will, her icy fingers clutch the garment around herself desperately.   
“Thank you.” Her voice chokes. She doesn’t understand how such a small gesture is making her chest hurt so badly.   
The clown’s voice is suddenly very soft, barely audible over the wind. “So you are not empty after all.”  
“Yes I am.” Her vision of the obsidian quarry blurs over with tears. “I’m fucking empty and I’m not afraid of you and I don’t care what the fuck you do.”  
More laughter from Pennywise. “I can smell your lies child.” And then serious again. “You are not empty. And you DO care. I could rip your spine from the rest of your chattering bones you know? Or slurp your entrails like spaghetti while you watch the bloody steam from them stain my brow.” Saliva puddles and drips from It’s lower lip as It ponders this statement.   
She feels no fear at this. Only quiet acceptance. “That makes you just like everyone else. Old hat.”  
At this It tilts It’s head in genuine surprise. It can sense no guise. She meant what she said. There is no discrepancy of belief. She KNOWS It can do just as It says. And yet there is no fear. None at all. She feels as if she is merely closing herself to It as she does of all things.  
“You are a very brave human.”  
“Maybe I’m just stupid.” She retorts.   
Another smile from Pennywise. “Perhaps. But I should think not. You do not smell stupid to me. You smell COLD.”   
“FINE.” She snaps, stumbling to her feet. Her foot slips on a rock and she loses her balance. The world seems to slow as she realizes she’s going to fall. And then jerks back into real time as she feels 2 large strong gloved hands grasp her arms and pull her upright with no effort at all.   
The clown brings It’s face down close to hers, the Golden orbs of It’s eyes making her cheeks glow.   
“Go home, child. This lake bed is no suitable resting place for a creature such as yourself. It is empty. You are not.” It releases her and steps back.   
On impulse, she leaps forward and hugs the tall clown. “Thank you for talking to me. I don’t know why, but it helped.” She feels It stiffen and then relax, tho It makes no move to return the embrace. She instinctively knows that It merely allowing her to do this is a concession on It’s part.  
“Okay. I’ll go home now.” She turns and walks away, not looking back.   
She hears It’s frozen voice once more before she simply knows It’s gone.  
“Not empty at all.”


	29. Day 29 Bikes

Anne flips idly thru the old picture album. The girl doesn’t recognize any of these people from long ago. Her ancestors. But looking at the old black and white and sepia makes her feel comfort. Even the old musty smell of the leather bound book brings peace.   
The pictures show mostly busts of people she will never know. Some completely foreign. Some bearing features still recognizable in her family to this day. Then she turns the page to see a photo of a man boxing with a kangaroo! The circus! She loves this particular album best for this reason. Elephants. Lions. Clowns. All in black and white and parading seemingly just for her. She feels her pulse flutter with joy.   
Suddenly she turns a page to a picture she doesn’t recognize.   
It is a tall broad shouldered man on a Penny Farthing. She remembers seeing one once at a museum. It looked like no other bike she had ever seen. Her grandmother had told her it was called a Penny Farthing.   
The man almost looks dapper perched atop the absurdly large front wheel with the tiny second wheel trailing behind. He even has a top hat.  
There is a wagon behind him with large bold letters on the side.  
“Pennywise The Dancing Clown.” She reads this aloud.  
Scratched into the paper at the bottom of the photo in faded ink are 2 names. Robert Gray. Pennywise. Almost like an autograph.  
As her eyes land on his face she feels herself grow suddenly and inexplicably nervous. His face is a wicked one. His brows are too prominent. His eyes are predatory and piercing. His smile is inhuman and strange, the lower lip hanging far too much. She is staring so intently she doesn’t realize how close her face has gotten to the photo.   
And suddenly……. He winks.  
Gasping, she slams the book closed. Then opens it again.   
But try as she might, even looking at every single page. She cannot find the photo of the man in the Penny Farthing again.


	30. Day 30 Touch

Pennywise watches her, admiring the way she walks in the moonlight. The barrens are calm and cool this night. The wind shifts the leaves, making them sway and brush each other. The sound of it combines with the sounds of the crickets and frogs and the flowing water. It is a beautiful night. But It pays no attention to the environment, honing in on It's quarry.   
Swift and silent, It circles her. Watching the way her hair glides along her shoulders and collar bone. She is walking calmly, her hands outstretched to touch the quivering leaves as she walks.  
Her scent is a gentle mix of tea and female. She is so very calm, tho her heart sounds as if it is ready to burst from her. She hides her nervousness well.   
It shakes It's neck ruff as a lion would shake It's mane. She gasps and turns toward the sound of It's bells. It makes no effort to hide anymore. Is clearly visible in the clearing just ahead of her. It stands, ramrod straight, It's gloved hands folded primly behind It's back. It's head tilted to gaze down at her, blue eyes narrowed in to focus on her face. It is quite close. Mere meters away.   
"I've been waiting for you." It states. It's voice calm as is her own face. "So rude to keep me waiting."  
Her scent changes along with the rhythm of her human heart. She is aroused. It can smell this. She utters a cough and licks her lips, as if her mouth is dry. "You've been keeping me waiting as well, you know? As if I'm not thinking about sewer pipes every time I shower."  
It tips It's head back to howl a barking laugh to the stars, which echoes throughout the barrens, which have fallen silent. As if listening. Watching.  
"Then come to me, child." It opens It's arms, ready to embrace. Confidence leaks from It's very pores. She can't help but admire the way It looks here in this place. The moon reflects off of It's porcelain face, the lines cutting thru It's eyes looking black in the low light. Moon rays filter thru the whisps of It's ginger hair. The shadows of nearby branches carve zigzag forms on It's frame. It's suit shifts in the breeze and the tinkling of It's bells is almost muted due to the pounding of her heart in her ears.   
"No sir!" A wicked grin breaks her face, tho her heart patters like a frightened animal. "If you want me……. If you don't wanna wait…….. You better catch me clown boy!" At this she turns and flees.  
Behind her, beyond the sight of her running eyes, It's face changes. It's mouth creases into a grin which is far too wide for It's face, It's teeth growing sharp, framing It's still flat buck teeth. The skin around It's mouth splits slightly and fangs poke out, knife like, sending droplets of It's blood floating away, dancing tiny duets in the breeze. It's brow furrows demoniacally as It's irises now glow vermilion. It cackles again, the sound flying ahead to her running form, caressing her ears and skin, sending her pulse even higher. It enjoys a good chase and she seems to know this.  
Crouching low, It huffs in the left over traces of her scent, forgoing It's usual omnipresence in order to fully enjoy the capture of her. Her scent trail grows more aroused as it flows away. Saliva pools into It's sagging lower lip, glistening as it drips down It's fangs.   
Claws erupt from It's silken gloves and dig into the detritus and soil, gripping it tightly as the clown bursts forward. It's form blurs thru the underbrush, paying no heed to the thorns or brambles as she must. She is swift. It is more swift.   
She can hear It's breathy laughter behind her and emits a high pitched shrill sound. Something between a shriek and laughter. And as she does, she can feel It's hot wet breath on the nape of her neck. It is purposefully running her now. Enjoying the view of her fleeing form.   
Then, just as suddenly, the barrens are silent behind her. But she is not fooled. Seeing an embankment ahead, she scrambles down it, not bothering to lose speed in order to look behind her. As she nears the bottom, her lungs begin to burn. She cannot run much longer. Risking a glance behind herself, she sees the empty brush and stops. She turns, and tries to stifle her noisy breathing in order to hear better.  
And suddenly her breath catches, trapped in her throat like a flightless bird with its fluttering clipped wings. At the top of the embankment above her head, stands Pennywise. Very naked. And very much possessing the body of a woman.   
She, for the girl cannot help but think of this creature as a She, is just as tall as the clown has ever been. There are several noteable changes in the facial and body structures. The skin is still porcelain. The only clothing still apparent are the flashy boots with their orange puffed toes, strings of tiny bells wound around her limbs and waist, torn shredded gloves, and the gossamer neck ruff. Her abdominal muscles are visible in the cool light of the moon, clenching and flexing as she appears to breathe. Her hips are wider. Her breasts rise and fall with her ribcage. The lines are still on her face, cutting up as they always have. Her brows are ridged and monster like. The lips are fuller now. And her ginger hair falls in waves and curls to brush the tops of her breasts.  
Her eyes glow out like 2 red beacons. Twitching and moving to keep the woman below her in focus. She steps forward, her thighs tensing with the movement. Then She kicks forward, off the edge of the embankment, her arms spread wide and her bells jingling. The fall is much slower than it should be, as if she is floating down instead. Her eyes close and she throws her head back with a wicked grin, as if she is enjoying the drop. Her curls billow out and fan around her face.  
She lands softly and noiseless except for the bells, before standing and shaking her full hair out of her face and giving the woman before her a toothy grin.  
"You're mine now, little one." The voice is still raspy, yet now with a female edge. The muscles of her pale form ripple as she drops to a predatory crouch. "Not many places to run to. Where shall you run now?"  
She doesn't run. She feels frozen in place, watching this eldritch tigress stalk her. And stalk she does, advancing slowly, circling almost, her fangs glinting in the moonlight and the tips of the claws on her long slender fingers tapping on the tree trunks she passes. Her tongue slips out, long and pointed, to stroke along the sharp edges of her fangs, pressing her lips back as it passes.   
"I can smell how wet you are for me." Spittle slathers from her maw as she says this. Foaming out to glittering droplets on the soft leaves her boots trample over. "It's absolutely mouth watering." She snickers at her own dark joke.   
A small croaking sound emerges from (Y/N) as her throat dries to desert pitch. This turns the clown's painted grin into a wicked sneer.   
"I'm going to touch you. It may very well hurt. But you will like it. Won't you." This is not a question, but a statement. Suddenly, the clown runs for her. (Y/N) turns to run again, seeing Pennywise leave the ground in an inhuman leap. She feels the silk of the torn gloves as the long fingers reach around her body to close on her wrists. She feels the clown's cool skin thru her shirt, along her back. Feels the swell of her breasts pressing into her shoulder blades. Her feet kick uselessly as they leave the ground and Pennywise holds her firmly in a backwards embrace.   
(Y/N) freezes as she feels the clown nuzzle under her hair to scent her neck deeply, snuffling and nipping gently and licking her collarbone with that inhuman tongue. Pennywise chuckles here, if the animalistic grunting can be called a chuckle.   
"Put me down." She tries to sound firm. Pennywise laughs and flings her down. She rolls over to give the clown a dour look.   
Pennywise falls upon her then, grasping her pants, digging claws into the fabric, a hand on each of her legs, to yank her to herself. Pulling her legs around her naked waist. Then pressing a hand to her shoulder to push her upper half to the ground. (Y/N) feels the tips of the clown's sharp claws press into her cheeks as she grasps her chin and turns her face towards her own lips. She gasps as she feels Pennywise's buck teeth nip almost painfully upon her upper lip. But she does not shy away, pressing her own lips up, offering them to the fanged mouth of the clown.   
And Pennywise doesn't hesitate, kissing her deeply. She feels some of the fangs prick thru the skin of her kiss swollen lips. Tastes her own blood. Before the clown grunts and she feels the fangs retract.   
"Wouldn't want to hurt my pretty human too badly." She flicks her tongue around the tender lips, groaning in fierce enjoyment at the taste.   
(Y/N) wraps her arms around the neck of the clown, burying her fingertips into the rippling flesh of her back. Pennywise allows her to pull herself close. She nips the clown's earlobe and whispers.  
"Shut up and fuck me."


	31. Day 31 Lover

"Shut up and fuck me."

At this 😈 (Y/N) lets herself fall back to the leaves, staring up at Pennywise wickedly. The clown grins at her, buck teeth shining in the light of the moon. Saliva dribbles down onto (Y/N)'s exposed navel. Her shirt has come up a bit in the struggle. The cool touch of the liquid sends goosebumps along her flesh. 

Reaching down, Pennywise grabs a fistful of the front of (Y/N)'s shirt, pulling her languid body back up towards her face. Biting into the stretched front of the shirt, the clown gnaws and pulls and tears the garment. (Y/N)'s body flails at the jerking motions of this. 

Tho her body is still suspended, the shirt is not yet torn clean thru, Pennywise continues to hold her up by the shorn fabric. Latching onto the thin bra strap between (Y/N)'s breasts with her teeth, she emits muffled snarls as she shakes her head violently. 

(Y/N) feels the very moment the fabric gives. She feels suspended and timeless for the barest of moments, the hot breath feathering across her naked chest, the soft curls of her lover brushing her skin, the blue moonlight filtered thru the clown's ginger hair creating an almost purple halo. The fierce creature looks like some ancient and terrible predator. Like a goddess of consumption. (Y/N) supposes that's exactly what she is. She admires the ferocity of this being for the eternity of milliseconds before she feels the prickle of leaves on her naked back.

The clown's mouth is not far behind. (Y/N) gasps as she feels the teeth, sharp once more, drag along the sensitive tips of her nipples. Pennywise hisses as she nips the sensitive skin. (Y/N) gasps and arches her back into the maw of the beast. She feels the claws drawing blood on her hips as the clown yanks at the hem of her pants, careless in her lust. 

(Y/N) brings her fists up to tangle in the hair of the clown, and the clown growls in pleasure in return. She feels clawed fingers shakily ripping material away from her hips. Pennywise nips a bit too harshly at her sternum as her mouth travels down. Tiny blood trails leave beads upon (Y/N)'s pale skin. Perhaps it hurts. (Y/N) does not care. She feels wet fangs upon her thigh as the impatient beast uses her mouth to pull the remaining shreds of the garment away. 

Then Pennywise harshly yanks (Y/N)'s thighs upon her shoulders. Groans make the leaves around them quiver as (Y/N) feels the inhuman tongue caress her folds. The clown is not shy, lapping as if she were a parched fiend. She feels the pointed tip slide along her aching clit. Gasping, she lifts her face to gaze down. Her eyes are met with vermilion orbs. Pennywise is watching as she writhes beneath her. 

Wet, slurping sounds fill the night as Pennywise feasts upon her. There is no shame here. (Y/N) knows this being is not capable of such an emotion. Pennywise wants to TAKE her pleasure. And (Y/N) gives it freely.

She gasps as Pennywise sharply nips her thigh, swirling her tongue around the shallow wound, then kissing it wetly. She then swings her face up to scrape her fangs along the soft flesh of her belly, leaving a trail of saliva and juices. 

Growls vibrate (Y/N)'s belly as the clown's lips find her own. She gasps into her mouth at the strange mix of pleasure and pain as she feels the clown's hip bone digging into her slit. As if she is trying to spread her wider thru will alone. Pennywise crushes (Y/N) to herself, their breasts kneading together in a painful tempo, as if the clown cannot understand her own strength. 

This time, (Y/N) welcomes the taste of her own blood, relishing in the heady iron flavor. Something presses, wet and wriggling, against her quivering thighs.

"Oh no you don't." (Y/N) is unsure of how she's able to form coherent thought, much less mold those thoughts into speech, but she pushes back on the chest of Pennywise. The clown snarls but complies, allowing herself to be pressed back, the wriggling appendage held at bay.

"Why do you deny me?" The hissed question is part shock, part hurt. 

"YOU lay down." The command is gentle yet firm.

"Such a brave creature." This is a murmur, fervent. Pennywise complies again, laying her pale and lithe body upon the leafy ground. 

(Y/N) runs her fingers along the cool body of the clown. The skin and muscles quiver at her touch, the movement reminding her of the quivering of a horse's flanks at the touch of a fly. The flesh is much colder than any mortal woman. But she can feel a pulse underneath her finger tips. She knows this form is just a facade. Yet it is a very well crafted work. The skin and flesh mocking the flush of a human woman's flush perfectly. 

(Y/N)'s gaze lands upon the juncture of Pennywise's thighs. Several tentacle like digits surround a glistening wet slit. The entire genital structure appears to emerge from labia, like a woman, yet different. As if it is a fleshy red flower. The tentacles rest, petal like, around the more female parts, like a cloaca. She reaches a tentative hand to touch this slit.

The clown snarls, her brow furrowed, her abs curled and coiled like a serpent, her fangs bared. Yet she holds still otherwise, allowing the human woman's touch. (Y/N) can see by this reaction just how touch starved Pennywise really is. She slides a finger inside. 

It doesn't feel as a human woman feels. The opening itself writhes and pulls. With the way that Pennywise thrashed and foams at the mouth, (Y/N) understands that the nerve endings all around are quite sensitive. She blushes but begins to massage the quivering orifice. 

Pennywise snarls, her jaw opening much wider than is humanly possible. Her hips thrusting to the rhythm of (Y/N)'s touch. Feeling a sudden stab of bravery, (Y/N) lowers her lips to the clown's slit. 

A reverberating hiss rolls from the clown's body and she freezes stock still. (Y/N) rolls her tongue in an exploratory manner, then gasps as she feels the petal like tentacles caress her cheeks and eyelids. Emboldened she presses her tongue firmly into this slit. The taste is salty as a woman's, yet cooler. (Y/N) feels pin pricks in her scalp as the clown presses her claws in, bellowing a desperate keen. 

Then Pennywise sits up, grasping her by her armpits and pulling her firmly and effortlessly astride herself. 

"You little tease." This is a cold and deadly uttering. (Y/N) gasps as her pussy is pressed against the cool alien slit. She feels something emerging from the clown and into her own body. Wriggling and slimy, the appendage thrusts without mercy. A tentacle slithers around to wrap it's pointed tip around (Y/N)'s clit, pulsing and massaging with cruel fervor. 

Pennywise sits up to coo alien words into (Y/N)'s ears as she comes undone in a guttural scream. Then lays back down, cupping (Y/N)'s face to her breasts, almost as a mother, holding her limp body. Shushing her and comforting her. 

(Y/N) feels sore as the stiff appendage slips from her. 

"That was….." She is unable to finish.

"Oh but we're not finished." The clown snickers.

(Y/N)'s eyes widen.


End file.
